fRTT 


3     I       ftim.iiE«ii<f 


g^-iJiA  .,^-vte^L*,-.^^ 


PERCY  SLFI 


"'^I'fTtfii'W  .•aa  Tyw 


JOHN  SKALLY  TERRY 
MEMORIAL  COLLECTION 


ESTABLISHED  BY 

THE  FAMILY  IN  HONOR  OF 

JOHN  S.  TERRY 

CLASS  OF  1918 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA  LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


10003058316 


This  BOOK  may  be  kept  out  TWO  WEEKS 
ONLY,  and  is  subject  to  a  fine  of  FIVE 
CENTS  a  day  thereafter.  It  is  DUE  on  the 
DAY   indicated  below: 


. 


i 


MISS    ELLISON   GREETED   TOM   WITH   A   MYSTERIOUS  SMILE. 

Frontispiece' — Page  27 


TOM     SLADE 

WITH  THE  COLORS 


BY 

PERCY  K.  FITZHUGH 

Author  of 
TOM  SLADE,    BOY  SCOUT 
TOM  SLADE  AT  TEMPLE  CAMP 
TOM  SLADE  ON  THE  RIVER 


Illustrated  by 
THOMAS  CLARITY 


Published  With  the  Approval  of 
THE  BOY  SCOUTS  OF  AMERICA 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS      :     NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 


CHAPTER 
I. 
II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 
X. 

XI. 
XII. 
XIII. 
XIV. 
XV. 
XVI. 
XVII. 
XVIII. 
XIX. 
XX. 
XXI. 
XXII. 
XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI 

XXVII 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Tom  Makes  a  Promise     ....         i 

"Bull  Head"  and  "Butter  Fingers"  13 

Roscoe  Bent 2I 

The  Cup  of  Joy 27 

The  Main  Trail 4° 

Tom  and  the  Gold  Cross       ...  49 
The  Trail  Runs  Through  a  Pesti- 
lent Place 5° 

An  Accident 6° 

Roscoe  Joins  the  Colors  ....  66 
Tom    and    Roscoe    Come    to    Know 

Each  Other 7° 

Tom  Meets  a  Stranger     ....  79 

Tom  Hears  of  the  Blond  Beast     .  85 

As  Others  Saw  Him 93 

Tom  Gets  a  Job I01 

The  Excited  Passenger     .      .      •      •  I09 

Tom  Makes  a  Discovery  .      ...  116 

One  of  the  Blond  Beast's  Weapons  124 

Sherlock  Nobody  Holmes      .      •      •  i29 

The  Time  of  Day T37 

A  New  Job J45 

Into  the  Danger  Zone     .     .     •     •  1S2 

SOS l6° 

Roy  Blakeley  Keeps   Still— for  a 

Wonder x72 

A  Soldier's  Honor lSl 

The  Face *9° 

Roscoe  Bent  Breaks  His  Promise    .     199 
The  End  of  the  Trail     .      .     .     -     2I5 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/tomsladewithcoloOfitzh 


TOM    SLADE 

WITH  THE  COLORS 
CHAPTER    I 

TOM   MAKES    A    PROMISE 

Tom  Slade  hoisted  up  his  trousers,  tightened 
his  belt,  and  lounged  against  the  railing  outside 
the  troop  room,  listening  dutifully  but  rather  sul- 
lenly to  his  scoutmaster. 

"All  I  want  you  to  do,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Ells- 
worth, "is  to  have  a  little  patience— just  a  little 

patience." 

"A  little  tiny  one— about  as  big  as  Pee-wee," 

added  Roy. 

"A  little  bigger  than  that,  I'm  afraid,"  laughed 
Mr.  Ellsworth,  glancing  at  Pee-wee,  who  was 
adjusting  his  belt  axe  preparatory  to  beginning 
his  perilous  journey  homeward  through  the  wilds 
of  Main  Street. 

"Just  a  little  patience,"  repeated  the  scoutmas- 
ter, rapping  Tom  pleasantly  on  the  shoulder. 


2       TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"Don't  be  like  the  day  nursery,"  put  in  Roy. 
"All  their  trouble  is  caused  by  having  very  little 
patients." 

"Very  bright,"  said  Mr.  Ellsworth. 

"Eighteen  candle  power,"  retorted  Roy.  "I 
ought  to  have  ground  glass  to  dim  the  glare, 
hey?" 

The  special  scout  meeting,  called  to  make  final 
preparations  for  the  momentous  morrow,  had 
just  closed;  the  other  scouts  had  gone  off  to  their 
several  homes,  and  these  three — Tom  Slade,  Roy 
Blakeley  and  Walter  Harris  (alias  Pee-wee)  — 
were  lingering  on  the  sidewalk  outside  the  troop 
room  for  a  few  parting  words  with  "our  beloved 
scoutmaster,"  as  Roy  facetiously  called  Mr.  Ells- 
worth. 

As  they  talked,  the  light  in  the  windows  disap- 
peared, for  "Dinky,"  the  church  sexton,  was  in  a 
hurry  to  get  around  to  Matty's  stationery  store 
to  complete  his  humdrum  but  patriotic  duty  of 
[throwing  up  a  wooden  railing  to  keep  the  throng 
in  line  in  the  morning. 

"The  screw  driver  is  mightier  than  the  sword, 
hey,  Dink?"  called  the  irrepressible  Roy,  as 
Dinky  hurried  away  into  the  darkness. 

"All  I  wanted  to  say,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Ells- 


TOM  MAKES  A  PROMISE  3 

worth  soberly,  "is  just  this:  let  me  do  your  think- 
ing for  you — even  your  patriotic  thinking — for 
the  time  being.  Do  you  get  me?  Don't  run  off 
and  do  anything  foolish." 

"Is  it  foolish  to  fight  for  your  country?"  asked 
Tom  doggedly. 

"It  might  be,"  retorted  the  scoutmaster,  noth- 
ing daunted. 

"I'm  not  going  to  stay  here  and  see  people 
drowned  by  submarines,"  muttered  Tom. 

"You  won't  see  them  drowned  by  submarines 
as  long  as  you  stay  here,  Tomasso,"  said  Roy 
mischievously.  He  loved  to  make  game  of  Tom's 
clumsy  speech. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Tom;  "I  ain't 
going  to  be  a  slacker  for  anybody." 

"You  might  as  well  say  that  President  Wilson 
is  a  slacker  because  he  doesn't  go  off  and  enlist  in 
some  regiment,"  said  Mr.  Ellsworth;  "or  that 
Papa  Joffre  is  a  coward  because  he  doesn't  waste 
his  time  with  a  rifle  in  the  trenches." 

"Gee  whiz,  you  can't  say  he's  a  coward,"  ex- 
claimed Pee-wee,  "because  I  saw  him!" 

"Of  course,  that  proves  he  isn't  a  coward,"  said 
Roy  slyly. 

"There's  going  to  be  work,  and  a  whole  lot  of 


4       TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

it,  for  every  one  to  do,  Tom,"  continued  Mr. 
Ellsworth  pleasantly.  "There  is  going  to  be  work 
for  old  men  and  young  men,  for  women  and  girls 
and  boys — and  scouts.  And  being  a  slacker  con- 
sists in  not  doing  the  work  which  you  ought  to  do. 
If  a  girl  has  a  flower  bed  where  she  might  grow 
tomatoes,  and  she  grows  roses  there  instead,  you 
might  call  her  a  slacker. 

"The  officials  in  Washington  who  have  this 
tremendous  burden  on  their  shoulders  have  told 
us  what  we,  as  scouts  (Mr.  Ellsworth  always 
called  himself  a  scout),  ought  to  do.  They  have 
outlined  a  program  for  us.  Now  if  you  run  off 
and  join  the  army  in  the  hope  of  doing  a  man's 
work,  why  then  some  man  has  got  to  knuckle 
down  and  do  your  work.    See?" 

"I'm  sick  of  boring  holes  in  sticks,"  grunted 
Tom. 

"Well,  I  dare  say  you  are.  I  never  said  it  was 
as  pleasant  as  eating  ice  cream.  What  I  say  is 
that  we  must  all  knuckle  down  and  do  what  we 
can  do  best  to  help  defend  Old  Glory.  And  we 
can't  always  choose  our  work  for  ourselves.  I'm 
going  to  stay  here,  for  the  present,  at  least,  and 
keep  you  scouts  busy.  And  I  don't  consider  that 
I'm  a  slacker  either.    If  you  all  stand  by  me  and 


TOM  MAKES  A  PROMISE  5 

help,  I  can  be  of  more  service  right  here,  just 
now,  than  I  could  be  if  I  went  away." 

"Then  why  does  the  government  have  posters 
out  all  around,  urging  fellers  to  join  the  army?" 
said  Tom,  unconvinced. 

"There  are  fellers  and  fellers,"  said  Mr.  Ells- 
worth, mimicking  Tom's  pronunciation  of  the 
word,  "and  what  is  best  for  one  isn't  necessarily 
best  for  another.  These  posters  are  for  fellows 
older  than  you,  as  you  know  perfectly  well.  I'm 
talking  now  of  what  is  best  for  you — at  present. 
Won't  you  trust  me?  If  you  can't  obey  and  trust 
your  scoutmaster,  you  couldn't  obey  and  trust  your 
captain  and  your  general." 

"I  never  said  I  didn't,"  said  Tom. 

"Well,  then,  leave  it  to  me.  When  the  time 
comes  for  you  to  join  the  army,  I'll  tell  you  so, 
and  I'll  shout  it  so  loud  that  you  can't  make  any 
mistake.  Meanwhile,  put  aside  all  that  idea  and 
knuckle  down  and  help.  You're  just  as  much  with 
the  colors  now  as  if  you  were  in  the  trenches. 
.   .    .    You'll  be  on  hand  early  to-morrow?" 

"I  s'pose  so,"  said  Tom  sullenly. 

Mr.  Ellsworth  looked  at  him  steadily.  No 
doubt  it  was  something  in  Tom's  grudging  man- 
ner that  made  him  apprehensive,  but  perhaps  too 


6       TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

as  he  looked  at  the  boy  who  had  been  growing 
up  before  his  eyes  in  the  past  two  years,  he  real- 
ized as  he  had  not  realized  before  that  Tom  had 
come  to  be  a  pretty  fine  specimen  and  could  stand 
unconcerned,  as  he  certainly  would,  at  the  most 
rigid  and  exacting  physical  test. 

When  Tom's  rapid  growth  had  brought  the  in- 
evitable advent  of  long  trousers,  arousing  the  un- 
holy mirth  of  Roy  Blakeley  and  others,  Mr.  Ells- 
worth had  experienced  a  jarring  realization  that 
the  process  had  begun  whereby  his  scouts  would 
soon  begin  slipping  away  from  him. 

He  had  compromised  with  Time  by  making 
Tom  a  sort  of  assistant  scoutmaster  and  encour- 
aging Connie  Bennett  to  work  into  Tom's  place 
as  leader  of  the  Elk  Patrol;  and  he  had  lived  in 
continual  dread  lest  Tom  (who  might  be  counted 
on  for  anything)  discover  his  own  size,  as  it  were, 
and  get  the  notion  in  his  stubborn  head  that  he 
was  too  big  to  be  a  scout  at  all. 

But  Tom  had  thought  too  much  of  the  troop 
and  of  the  Elks  for  that,  and  a  new  cause  of  ap- 
prehension for  Mr.  Ellsworth  had  arisen  which 
now  showed  in  every  line  of  his  face  as  he  looked 
at  Tom. 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me,  Tom,  that  you 


TOM  MAKES  A  PROMISE  7 

won't  try  to  enlist  without  my  permission.  I£ 
you'll  say  that  and  obey  Rule  Seven  the  same  as 
you  have  always  obeyed  it,  I'll  be  satisfied." 

"How  about  Rule  Ten?"  said  Tom,  in  his  usual 
dogged,  half-hearted  manner;  "a  scout  has  got  to 
be  brave,  he's  got  to  face  danger,  he's " 

"You  notice  Rule  Seven  comes  before  Rule 
Ten,"  snapped  Mr.  Ellsworth.  "They  put  them 
in  the  order  of  their  importance.  The  men  who 
made  the  Handbook  knew  what  they  were  about. 
The  question  is  just  whether  you're  going  to  con- 
tinue to  respect  Rule  Seven,  that's  all." 

Mr.  Ellsworth  knew  how  to  handle  Tom. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  Tom  said  reluctantly. 

"Then  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  Give  me  your 
hand,  Tom." 

Tom  put  out  his  hand,  and  as  the  scoutmaster 
shook  it  his  manner  relaxed  into  the  usual  off- 
hand way  which  the  scouts  so  liked  and  which 
had  made  him  so  popular  among  them. 

"President  Wilson  wasn't  in  any  great  rush 
about  going  to  war,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  be  in 
a  hurry  to  get  into  a  uniform.  You're  in  a  uni- 
form already,  if  it  comes  to  that.  And  the  Sec- 
retary of  War  says  our  little  old  scout  khaki  is 
going  to  make  itself  felt.     I'd  be  the  last  to  preach 


8       TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

slacking,  and  when  it's  time,  if  the  time  comes, 
I'll  tell  you.  .  .  .  You  know,  Tom,"  he  added 
ruefully,  "you're  getting  to  be  such  a  fine, 
strapping  fellow  that  it  makes  me  afraid  you'd 
get  away  with  it  if  you  tried.  I  don't  like  to  see 
you  so  big,  Tom " 

"Don't  you  care,"  said  Pee-wee  soothingly, 
"I'm  small  still." 

"If  you  were  old  enough,  I  wouldn't  say  any- 
thing against  it,"  Mr.  Ellsworth  added.  "But 
you're  not,  Tom.  Some  people  don't  seem  to 
think  there's  anything  wrong  in  a  boy's  lying 
about  his  age  to  get  into  the  army.     But  I  do, 

and  I  think  you  do Don't  you?"  he  added 

anxiously. 

"Y-e-es." 

"Of  course,  you  couldn't  enlist  without  Mr. 
Temple's  consent,  he  being  your  guardian,  unless 
you  lied — and  I  know  you  wouldn't  do  that." 

"You  didn't  catch  me  in  many,  did  you?" 

"I  never  caught  you  in  any,  Tom." 

"Well,  then " 

"Well,  then,"  concluded  Mr.  Ellsworth,  "I 
guess  we'd  all  better  go  home  and  get  some  sleep. 
We've  got  one  strenuous  day  to-morrow." 

"It's  going  to  be  a  peach,"  said  Roy,  looking 


TOM  MAKES  A  PROMISE  9 

up  at  the  stars.  As  they  started  to  move  away, 
Mr.  Ellsworth  instinctively  extended  his  hand  to 
Tom  again. 

"I  have  your  promise,  then?"  said  he. 

"Y-e-s." 

"I'm  not  stuck  on  that  'yes-'  " 

"Yes,"  said  Tom,  more  briskly. 

"That  you  won't  do  anything  along  that  line 
till  you  consult  me?" 

"Don't  do  anything  till  you  count  ten,"  said 
Roy. 

"Make  it  ten  thousand,"  said  Mr.  Ellsworth. 

"And  after  you've  counted  ten,"  put  in  Pee- 
wee,  "if  you  decide  to  go,  I'll  go  with  you,  by 
crinkums !" 

"Go-o-d-night !"  laughed  Roy.  "That  ought  to 
be  enough  to  keep  you  at  home,  Tomasso!" 

Tom  smiled,  half  grudgingly,  as  he  turned  and 
started  toward  home. 

"You  don't  think  he'd  really  enlist,  do  you?" 
queried  Roy,  as  he  and  Pee-wee  and  Mr.  Ells- 
worth sauntered  up  the  street. 

"He  won't  now,"  said  the  scoutmaster.  "I 
have  his  promise." 

"Otherwise,  do  you  think  he  would?" 

"I  think  it  extremely  likely." 


io     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"And  lie  about  his  age?" 

Mr.  Ellsworth  screwed  his  face  into  a  funny, 
puzzled  look.  "There's  a  good  deal  of  that  kind 
of  thing  going  on,"  he  said,  "and  I  sometimes 
think  the  recruiting  people  wink  at  it,  or  perhaps 
they  are  just  a  little  too  ready  to  judge  by  physi- 
cal appearance.  Look  how  Billy  Wade  got 
through." 

"He  doesn't  look  eighteen,"  said  Roy. 

"Of  course  he  doesn't.  But  he  told  them  he 
was  'going  on  nineteen,'  and  so  he  was — just  the 
same  as  Pee-wee  is  going  on  fifty." 

Roy  laughed. 

"The  honor  of  enlisting,  the  willingness  to  sac- 
rifice one's  life,  seems  to  cover  a  multitude  of  sins 
in  the  eyes  of  spme  people,"  said  the  scoutmaster. 
"Heroic  duty  done  for  one's  country  will  wipe  out 
a  lot  of  faults. — It's  hard  to  get  a  line  on  Tom's 
thoughts.  He  asked  me  the  other  day  what  I 
thought  about  the  saying,  To  do  a  great  right,  do 
a  little  wrong.  I  don't  know  where  he  rooted  it' 
out,  but  it  gave  me  a  shudder  when  he  asked  me.'* 

"He  was  standing  in  front  of  the  recruiting 
station  down  at  the  post-office  yesterday,"  said 
Roy,    "staring   at   the    posters.      Goodness    only 


TOM  MAKES  A  PROMISE  1 1 

knows  what  he  was.  thinking  about.  He  came 
along  with  me  when  he  saw  me." 

"Hmrara,"  said  Mr.  Ellsworth  thoughtfully. 

"But  I  guess  he  wouldn't  try  anything  like  that 
here — the  town  is  too  small,"  said  Roy.  "Even 
the  recruiting  fellow  knows  him." 

"Yes;  but  what  worries  me,"  said  Mr.  Ells- 
worth, "is  when  he  goes  to  the  city  and  stands 
around  listening  to  the  orators  and  watches  the 
young  fellows  surging  into  the  recruiting  places. 
That  phrase,  Your  country  needs  you,  is  dinging 
in  his  ears." 

"He'd  get  through  in  a  walk,"  said  Roy. 

"That's  just  the  trouble,"  Mr.  Ellsworth 
mused.  "Tom  would  never  do  anything  that  he 
thought  wrong,"  he  added,  after  a  pause;  "but  he 
has  a  way  of  doping  things  out  for  himself,  and 
sometimes  he  asks  queer  questions." 

"Well,  he  promised  you,  anyway,"  said  Roy 
finally. 

"Oh,  yes,  that  settles  it,"  Mr.  Ellsworth  said. 
"All's  well  that  ends  well." 

"We  should  worry,"  sakl  Roy,  in  his  usual 
light-hearted  manner. 

"That's  just  what  I  shan't  do,"  the  scoutmastet 
answered. 


i2     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"All  right,  so  long,  see  you  later,"  Roy  called, 
as  he  started  up  Blakeley's  hill. 
^  Mr.  Ellsworth  and  Pee-wee  waved  him  good- 
night. Presently  Pee-wee  deserted  and  went 
down,  scout  pace,  through  Main  Street,  labori- 
ously hoisting  his  belt  axe  up  with  every  other 
step.  It  was  very  heavy  and  a  great  nuisance  to 
his  favorite  gait,  but  he  had  worn  it  regularly  to 
scout  meeting  ever  since  war  had  been  declared. 


CHAPTER    II 

'bull  head"  and  "butter  fingers' 


The  lateness  of  the  hour  did  not  incline  Tom 
to  hurry  on  his  journey  homeward.  He  was  thor- 
oughly discouraged  and  dissatisfied  with  himself, 
and  it  pleased  his  mood  to  amble  along  kicking  a 
stone  in  front  of  him  until  he  lost  it  in  the  dark- 
ness. Without  this  vent  to  his  distemper  he  be- 
came still  more  sullen.  It  would  have  been  better 
if  he  had  hunted  up  the  stone  and  gone  on  kicking 
it.  But  now  he  was  angry  at  the  stone  too.  He 
was  angry  at  everybody  and  everything. 

Ever  since  war  had  been  declared  Tom  had 
worked  with  the  troop,  doing  his  bit  under  Mr. 
Ellsworth's  supervision,  and  everything  he  had 
done  he  had  done  wrong — in  his  own  estimation. 

The  Red  Cross  bandages  which  he  had  rolled 
had  had  to  be  rolled  over  again.  The  seeds 
which  he  had  planted  had  not  come  up,  because 
he  had  buried  them  instead  of  planting  them. 
Roy's  onion  plants  were  peeping  coyly  forth  in 

13 


i4     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

the  troop's  patriotic  garden;  Doc  Carson's  lettuce 
was  showing  the  proper  spirit;  a  little  regiment 
of  humble  radishes  was  mobilizing  under  the  lov- 
ing care  of  Connie  Bennett,  and  Pee-wee's  to- 
matoes were  bold  with  flaunting  blossoms.  A 
bashful  cucumber  which  basked  unobtrusively  in 
the  wetness  of  the  ice-box  outlet  under  the  shed  at 
Artie  Van  Arlen's  home  was  growing  apace.  But 
not  a  sign  was  there  of  Tom's  beans  or  peas  or 
beets — nothing  in  his  little  allotted  patch  but  a 
lonely  plantain  which  he  had  carefully  nursed 
until  Pee-wee  had  told  him  the  bitter  truth — that 
this  child  of  his  heart  was  nothing  but  a  vulgar 
weed. 

It  is  true  that  Roy  Blakeley  had  tried  to  com- 
fort Tom  by  telling  him  that  if  his  seeds  did  not 
come  up  in  Bridgeboro  they  might  come  up  in 
China,  for  they  were  as  near  to  one  place  as  the 
other!     Tom  had  not  been  comforted. 

His  most  notable  failure,  however,  had  come 
this  very  week  when  three  hundred  formidable 
hickory  sticks  had  been  received  by  the  Home 
Defense  League  and  turned  over  to  the  Scouts  to 
have  holes  bored  through  them  for  the  leather 
thongs. 

There  had  been  a  special  scout  meeting  for  this 


BULL  HEAD  AND  BUTTER  FINGERS     15 

work ;  every  scout  had  come  equipped  with  a  gim- 
let, and  there  was  such  a  boring  seance  as  had 
never  been  known  before.  Roy  had  said  it  was 
a  great  bore.  As  fast  as  the  holes  were  bored, 
Pee-wee  had  tied  the  strips  of  leather  through 
them,  and  the  whole  job  had  been  finished  in  the 
one  evening. 

Tom  had  broken  his  gimlet  and  three  extra 
ones  which  fortunately  some  one  had  brought. 
The  hickory  had  proven  as  stubborn  as  he  was 
himself — which  is  saying  a  great  deal. 

He  had  tried  boring  from  each  side  so  that  the 
holes  would  meet  in  the  middle;  but  the  holes 
never  met.  When  he  had  bored  all  the  way 
through  from  one  side,  he  had  either  broken  the 
gimlet  or  the  hole  had  come  slantingways  and  the 
gimlet  had  come  out,  like  a  woodchuck  in  his  bur- 
row, where  it  had  least  been  expected  to  appear. 

And  now,  to  cap  the  climax,  he  was  to  stand 
outside  one  of  the  registration  places  the  next  day 
and  pin  little  flags  on  the  young  men  as  they  came 
out  after  registering.  The  other  members  of  the 
troop  were  to  be  distributed  all  through  the 
county  for  this  purpose  (wherever  there  was  no 
local  scout  troop),  and  each  scout,  or  group  of 
scouts,  would  sally  heroically  forth  in  the  morning 


1 6    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

armed  with  a  shoebox  full  of  these  honorable 
mementoes,  made  by  the  girls  of  Bridgeboro. 

And  meanwhile,  thought  Tom,  the  Germans 
were  sinking  our  ships  and  dropping  bombs  on 
hospitals  and  hitting  below  the  belt,  generally. 
He  was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  himself,  or  with 
his  trifling,  ineffective  part  in  the  great  war.  He 
felt  that  he  had  made  a  bungle  of  everything  so 
far,  and  his  mind  turned  contemptuously  from 
these  inglorious  duties  in  which  he  had  been  en- 
gaged to  the  more  heroic  role  of  the  real  soldier. 

Perhaps  his  long  trousers  had  had  something 
to  do  with  his  dissatisfaction;  in  any  event,  they 
made  his  bungling  seem  the  more  ridiculous.  His 
fellow  scouts  had  called  him  "bull  head"  and 
"butter  fingers,"  but  only  in  good  humor  and  be- 
cause they  loved  to  jolly  him;  for  in  plain  fact 
they  all  knew  and  admitted  that  Tom  Slade,  for- 
mer hoodlum,  was  the  best  all-round  scout  that 
ever  raised  his  hand  and  promised  to  do  his  duty 
to  God  and  Country  and  to  obey  the  Scout  Law. 

The  fact  was  that  Tom  was  clumsy  and  rough 
— perhaps  a  little  uncouth — and  he  could  do  big 
things  but  not  little  things. 

As  he  ambled  along  the  dark  street,  nursing  his 
disgruntled  mood,  he  came  to  Rockwood  Place 


BULL  HEAD  AND  BUTTER  FINGERS     1 7 

and  turned  into  it,  though  it  did  not  afford  him  the 
shortest  way  home.  But  in  his  sullen  mood  one 
street  was  as  good  as  another,  and  Rockwood 
Place  had  that  fascination  for  him  which  wealth 
and  luxury  always  had  for  poor  Tom. 

Three  years  before,  when  Tom  Slade,  hood- 
lum, had  been  deserted  by  his  wretched,  drunken 
father  and  left  a  waif  in  Bridgeboro,  Mr.  Ells- 
worth had  taken  him  in  hand,  Roy  had  become 
his  friend,  and  John  Temple,  president  of  the 
Bridgeboro  Bank,  noticing  his  amazing  reforma- 
tion, had  become  interested  in  him  and  in  the  Boy 
Scouts  as  well. 

It  had  proven  a  fine  thing  for  Tom  and  for 
the  Scouts.  Mr.  Temple  had  endowed  a  large 
scout  camp  in  the  Catskills,  which  had  become  a 
vacation  spot  for  troops  from  far  and  near,  and 
which,  during  the  two  past  summers,  had  been  the 
scene  of  many  lively  adventures  for  the  Bridge- 
boro boys. 

But  Tom  had  to  thank  Temple  Camp  and  its 
benevolent  founder  for  something  more  than 
health  and  recreation  and  good  times.  When  the 
troop  had  returned  from  that  delightful  wood- 
land community  in  the  preceding  autumn  and  Tom 
had  reached  the  dignity  of  long  trousers,  the  ques- 


1 8     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

tion  of  what  he  should  do  weighed  somewhat 
heavily  on  Mr.  Ellsworth's  mind,  for  Tom  was 
through  school  and  it  was  necessary  that  he  be 
established  in  some  sort  of  home  and  in  some 
form  of  work  which  would  enable  him  to  pay  his 
way. 

Perhaps  Tom's  own  realization  of  this  had  its 
part  in  inclining  him  to  go  off  to  war.  In  any 
event,  Mr.  Ellsworth's  perplexities,  and  to  some 
extent  his  anxieties,  had  come  to  an  end  when 
Mr.  Temple  had  announced  that  Temple  Camp 
was  to  have  a  city  office  and  a  paid  manager  for 
the  conduct  of  its  affairs,  which  had  theretofore 
been  looked  after  by  himself  and  the  several  trus- 
tees and,  to  some  extent,  by  Jeb  Rushmore,  for- 
mer scout  and  plainsman,  who  made  his  home  at 
the  camp  and  was  called  its  manager. 

Whether  Jeb  had  fulfilled  all  the  routine  re- 
quirements may  be  a  question,  but  he  was  the 
spirit  of  the  camp,  the  idol  of  every  boy  who  vis- 
ited it,  and  it  was  altogether  fitting  that  he  should 
be  relieved  of  the  prosy  duties  of  record-keeping 
which  were  now  to  be  relegated  to  the  little  of- 
fice in  Mr.  Temple's  big  bank  building  in  Bridge- 
boro. 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Tom  should  work  as  a 


BULL  HEAD  AND  BUTTER  FINGERS     19 

sort  of  assistant  to  Mr.  Burton  in  the  Temple 
Camp  office  and,  like  Jeb  Rushmore,  if  he  fell 
short  in  some  ways  (he  couldn't  touch  a  piece  of 
carbon  paper  without  getting  his  fingers  smeared) 
he  more  than  made  up  in  others,  for  he  knew  the 
camp  thoroughly,  he  could  describe  the  accommo- 
dations of  every  cabin,  and  tell  you  every  by-path 
for  miles  around,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  place 
showed  in  every  letter  that  went  out  over  Mr. 
Burton's  name. 

From  the  window,  high  up  on  the  ninth  floor, 
Tom  could  look  down  behind  the  big  granite  bank 
building  upon  a  narrow,  muddy  place  with  bar- 
rel staves  for  a  sidewalk  and  tenements  with  con- 
spicuous fire  escapes,  and  washes  hanging  on  the 
disorderly  roofs.  This  was  Barrel  Alley,  where 
Tom  had  lived  and  where  his  poor,  weary  mother 
had  died.  He  could  pick  out  the  very  tenement. 
Strangely  enough,  this  spot  of  squalor  and  un- 
happy memories  held  a  certain  place  in  his  affec- 
tion even  now. 

Tom  and  Mr.  Burton  and  Miss  Ellison,  the 
stenographer,  were  the  only  occupants  of  the  little 
office,  but  Mr.  Temple  usually  came  upstairs  from 
the  bank  each  day  to  confer  with  Mr.  Burton  for 
half  an  hour  or  so. 


20    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

There  was  also  another  visitor  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  coming  upstairs  from  the  bank  and  spend- 
ing many  half  hours  lolling  about  and  chatting. 
This  was  Roscoe  Bent,  a  young  fellow  who  was 
assistant  something-or-other  in  the  bank  and 
whose  fashionable  attire  and  worldly  wisdom 
caused  Tom  to  stand  in  great  awe  of  him. 

Roscoe  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  came 
up  in  order  to  smoke  cigarettes,  which  practice 
was  forbidden  down  in  the  bank.  He  would  come 
up,  smoke  a  cigarette,  chat  a  while,  and  then  go 
down  again.  He  seemed  to  know  by  inspiration 
when  Mr.  Burton  and  Mr.  Temple  were  going  to 
be  there.  Up  to  the  morning  of  this  very  day  he 
had  never  shown  very  much  interest  in  either  Tom 
or  Temple  Camp,  though  he  appeared  to  enter- 
tain a  lively  interest  in  Miss  Ellison,  and  Tom 
envied  him  his  easy  manner  and  his  faculty  for 
entertaining  her  and  making  her  laugh. 

On  the  morning  of  this  dav,  however,  when  he 
had  come  up  for  his  clandestine  smoke,  he  had 
manifested  much  curiosity  about  the  camp,  look- 
ing over  the  maps  and  pictures  and  asking  many 
questions. 

Tom  had  felt  highly  flattered.     .     .     „ 


CHAPTER    III 


ROSCOE    BENT 


Indeed,  Tom  had  felt  so  highly  flattered  that 
the  memory  of  young  Mr.  Roscoe  Bent's  conde- 
scension had  lingered  with  him  all  day,  and  now 
he  was  going  to  give  himself  the  pleasure  of 
walking  through  Rockwood  Place  for  a  passing 
glimpse  of  the  beautiful  house  wherein  young 
Roscoe  resided. 

Tom  knew  well  enough  that  Roscoe  had  to 
thank  the  friendship  between  his  father  and  Mr. 
Temple  for  his  position  in  the  bank.  In  his  heart 
he  knew  that  there  was  not  much  to  be  said  for 
Roscoe;  that  he  could  do  many  things  which  Ros- 
coe couldn't  begin  to  do;  but  Roscoe  on  the  other 
hand  could  do  all  those  little  things  which  poor 
Tom  never  could  master;  he  could  joke  and  make 
people  laugh,  and  he  always  knew  what  to  say 
and  how  to  say  it — especially  to  girls. 

Tom's  long  trousers  had  not  brought  him  this 

accomplishment,  and  in  his  clumsiness  of  speech 

21 


22     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

and  manner  he  envied  this  sprightly  youth  who 
had  become  so  much  of  a  celebrity  in  his  thoughts 
that  he  actually  took  a  certain  pleasure  in  walk- 
ing past  the  Bent  residence  just  because  it 
was  where  Roscoe  and  his  well-to-do  parents 
lived. 

He  was  a  little  ashamed  of  doing  this,  just  as 
he  was  ashamed  of  his  admiration  for  Roscoe, 
and  he  knew  that  neither  Roscoe,  with  his  fine 
airs,  nor  Roscoe's  home  would  have  had  any  at- 
tractions for  Roy  at  all.  But  then  Roy's  father 
was  rich,  whereas  Tom's  father  had  been  poor, 
and  he  had  come  out  of  the  slums  and  in  some 
tvays  he  would  never  change. 

"He  isn't  so  bad,  anyway,"  Tom  muttered  to 
himself,  as  he  kicked  another  stone  along.  "I 
knew  he'd  be  really  interested  some  day.  Any 
feller's  got  to  be  interested  in  a  camp  like  that. 
If  he  only  went  there  once,  he'd  see  what  it  was 
like  and  he'd  fall  for  it,  all  right.  I  bet  in  the 
summer  he  goes  to  places  where  they  dance  and 
bow,  and  all  that,  but  he'd  fall  for  Temple  Camp 
if  he  ever  went  there — he  would." 

Tom  was  greatly  elated  at  Roscoe's  sudden  in- 
terest, and  he  believed  that  great  things  would 
come  of  it. 


ROSCOE  BENT  23 

"If  he  could  only  once  see  that  shack  up  on  the 
mountain,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  make  that 
climb,  I  bet  he'd  knock  off  his  cigarettes.  If  he 
thought  those  pictures  were  good — gee,  what 
would  he  think  of  the  shack  itself!" 

When  he  reached  the  Bent  house  he  was  sur- 
prised to  see  an  automobile  standing  directly  in 
front  of  it  which  he  had  not  noticed  as  he  ap- 
proached because  its  lights  were  out.  Not  even 
the  little  red  light  which  should  have  illuminated 
the  car's  number  was  visible,  nor  was  there  a 
single  light  either  in  the  entrance  hall  or  in  any 
of  the  windows  of  the  big  house. 

In  the  car  sat  a  dark  figure  in  the  chauffeur's 
place,  and  Tom,  as  he  passed,  fancied  that  this 
person  turned  away  from  him.  He  was  rather 
surprised,  and  perhaps  a  little  curious,  for  he 
knew  that  the  Bents  did  not  keep  a  car,  and  he 
thought  that  if  the  presence  of  the  machine  meant 
visitors,  or  a  doctor,  there  would  be  some  light 
in  the  house. 

Reaching  the  corner,  he  looked  back  just  in 
time  to  see  another  figure,  carrying  luggage,  de- 
scend the  steps  and  enter  the  car.  He  was  still 
close  enough  to  know  that  not  a  word  was  spoken 
nor  a  sound  made ;  there  was  not  even  the  familiar 


24     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

and  usual  bang  of  the  automobile  door.  But  a 
certain  characteristic  swing  of  the  person  with  the 
luggage,  as  he  passed  one  bag  and  then  the  other 
into  the  car,  showed  Tom  that  the  figure  was  that 
of  young  Roscoe  Bent.  Then  the  car  rolled  away, 
leaving  him  gaping  and  speculating  in  the  con- 
cealment of  a  doorway  near  the  corner. 

"I  wonder  where  he  can  be  going  this  time  of 
night,"  Tom  mused.  "Gee,  that  was  funny!  If 
he  was  going  on  a  vacation  or  anything  like  that, 
he'd  have  said  so  this  morning — and  he'd  have 
said  good-bye  to  me.  Anyway,  he'd  have  said 
good-bye  to  Miss  Ellison.     .     .     ." 

Tom  boarded  with  a  private  family  in  Culver 
Street,  and  after  he  reached  home  he  sat  up  in 
his  room  for  a  while  working  with  a  kind  of  sul- 
len resignation  on  the  few  registration  badges 
which  had  still  to  have  pins  attached  to  them. 

It  was  while  he  was  engaged  in  this  heroic 
labor  that  a  thought  entered  his  mind  which  he 
put  away  from  him,  but  which  kept  recurring 
again  and  again,  and  which  ended  by  cheating  him 
out  of  his  night's  sleep.  Why  should  Roscoe  Bent 
be  leaving  home  with  two  suitcases  at  twelve 
o'clock  at  night  when  he  would  have  to  register 
for  the  selective  draft  the  next  day? 


ROSCOE  BENT  25 

After  this  rather  puzzling  question  had  entered 
his  mind  and  refused  to  be  ousted  or  explained 
away,  other  puzzling  questions  began  to  follow  it, 
Why  had  the  lights  of  the  automobile  been  out? 
Why  had  there  been  no  lights  in  the  house?  Why 
had  no  one  come  out  on  the  porch  to  bid  Roscoe 
good-bye?  Why  had  not  Roscoe  slammed  the 
auto  door  shut,  as  one  naturally  did,  that  being 
the  easiest  way  to  shut  it? 

Well,  all  that  was  Roscoe's  business,  not  his, 
thought  Tom,  as  he  settled  down  to  go  to  sleep, 
and  perhaps  he  had  closed  the  door  quietly  be- 
cause he  wished  not  to  disturb  any  one  so  late  at 
night.    That  was  very  thoughtful  of  Roscoe.   .   .   . 

But  just  the  same  Tom  could  not  go  to  sleepr 
and  he  lay  in  bed  thinking  uneasily. 

He  had  just  about  conquered  his  misgivings 
and  had  begun  to  think  how  suspicious  and  ungen- 
erous he  was,  when  another  question  occurred  to 
him  which  had  the  effect  of  a  knock-out  blow  to 
his  peace  of  mind. 

Why  had  Roscoe  Bent  told  Miss  Ellison  that  it 
was  better  to  be  a  live  coward  than  a  dead 
hero? 

— Why,  he  had  only  been  joking,  of  course,  when 
he  said  that!     It  was  one  of  those  silly,  careless 


26     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

things  that  he  was  always  saying.  Miss  Ellison 
had  not  seemed  to  think  it  was  very  funny,  but 
that  had  only  made  Roscoe  laugh  the  more.  "I'd 
rather  kill  time  than  kill  Germans,"  he  had  said 
lightly.  And  Miss  Ellison  had  said,  "You're 
quite  brave  at  killing  time,  aren't  you?" 

It  was  just  joking  and  jollying,  thought  Tom, 
as  he  turned  over  for  the  fourth  or  fifth  time,  and 
he  wished  that  he  could  joke  and  jolly  like  that. 
He  made  up  his  mind  that  when  Roscoe  came 
upstairs  in  the  morning  he  would  ask  him  whether 
the  Germans  weren't  cowards  to  murder  innocent 
women  and  children,  and  whether  he  would  really 
want  to  be  like  them.  He  believed  he  could  say 
that  much  without  a  tremor,  even  in  front  of  Miss 
Ellison. 

He  wished  morning  would  come  so  that  he 
could  be  sure  that  Roscoe  ...  so  that  he  courd 
say  that  when  Roscoe  came  upstairs. 

"I'll  bet  he'll  be  sleepy  after  being  out  so  late," 
thought  Tom. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE    CUP    OF    JOY 

Tom  was  to  have  the  next  day  off  for  his  pa' 
triotic  activities,  but  he  went  to  the  Temple  Camp 
office  early  in  the  morning  to  get  the  mail  opened 
and  attend  to  one  or  two  routine  duties. 

He  found  Miss  Ellison  already  at  her  desk* 
and  she  greeted  him  with  a  mysterious  smile. 

"I  hear  you're  going  to  be  one  of  the  celebri- 
ties," she  said,  busying  herself  with  her  type- 
writer machine. 

"One  of  the  what?"  said  Tom. 

"One  of  the  leading  figures  of  the  day.  I  don't 
suppose  you'll  even  look  at  poor  me  to-morrow. 
— I  was  down  in  the  bank  and  Mr.  Temple  said 
to  send  you  down  as  soon  as  you  came  in." 

"Me?"  stammered  Tom. 

"Yes,  you." 

For  a  few  seconds  Tom  waited,  not  knowing 
what  to  say  or  do — especially  with  his  feet. 

21 


28     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"You  didn't  notice  if  Roscoe  was  down  there, 
did  you?"  he  finally  ventured. 

"I  most  certainly  did  not,"  answered  Miss  Elli- 
son, smiling  with  that  same  mysterious  smile,  as 
she  tidied  up  her  desk.     "I  have  something  elsej 
to  think  of  besides  Mr.  Roscoe  Bent." 

Tom  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  "I 
thought  you — maybe — kind  of — I  thought  you 
liked  him,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  did  you?" 

He  had  never  been  quite  so  close  to  Miss  Elli- 
son before,  nor  engaged  in  such  familiar  discourse 
with  her.  He  hesitated,  moving  uneasily,  then 
made  a  bold  plunge. 

"I  think  you  can — I  think  a  person — I  think  a 
feller  can  tell  if  a  girl  kind  of  likes  a  certain  fel- 
ler— sort  of " 

"Indeed!"  she  laughed.  "Well,  then,  perhaps 
you  can  tell  if  I  like  you — sort  of." 

This  was  too  much  for  Tom.  He  wrestled  for 
a  moment  with  his  embarrassment,  but  he  was  in 
for  it  now,  and  he  was  not  going  to  back  out. 

"I'm  too  clumsy  for  girls,"  said  he;  "they  al- 
ways notice  that." 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  them,"  said  the 
girl;  "suppose  I  should  tell  you  that  /  never  no- 


THE  CUP  OF  JOY  29 

ticed  any  such  thing. — A  girl  usually  notices  if  a 
fellow  is  strong,  though,"  she  added. 

"It  was  being  a  scout  that  made  me  strong." 

"There  are  different  ways  of  being  strong," 
observed  Miss  Ellison,  busying  herself  the  while. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Tom.  "I  got  a 
good  muscle." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  at  him 
frankly.  "I  didn't  mean  exactly  that,"  she  said. 
"I  meant  if  you  make  up  your  mind  to  do  a  thing, 
you'll  do  it." 

Again  Tom  waited,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 
He  felt  strangely  happy,  yet  very  uncomfortable. 
At  length,  for  lack  of  anything  better  to  say,  he 
observed: 

"I  guess  you  kinder  like  Roscoe,  all  right." 

For  answer  she  bent  over  her  typewriter  and 
began  to  make  an  erasure. 

"Don't  you?"  he  persisted,  gaining  courage. 

"Do  I  have  to  tell  you?"  she  asked,  laughing 
merrily. 

Tom  lingered  for  a  few  moments.  He  wanted 
to  stay  longer.  This  little  familiar  chat  was  a 
bigger  innovation  in  his  life  than  the  long  trousers 
had  been.  His  heart  was  pounding  just  as  it  had 
pounded  when  he  first  took  the  scout  oath.     Evi- 


30    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

dently  the  girl  meant  to  leave  early  herself,  and 
see  something  of  the  day's  festivities,  for  she  was 
very  prettily  attired.  Perhaps  this,  perhaps  the 
balmy  fragrance  of  that  wonderful  spring  day 
which  Providence  had  ordered  for  the  registra- 
tion of  Uncle  Sam's  young  manhood,  perhaps  the 
feeling  that  some  good  news  awaited  him  down  in 
Mr.  Temple's  office,  or  perhaps  all  three  things 
contributed  to  give  Tom  a  feeling  of  buoyancy. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  the  parade?"  he  asked. 
"T  got  a  badge  here  maybe  you'd  like  to  wear.  I 
can  get  another  for  myself." 

"I  would  like  very  much  to  wear  it,"  she  said, 
taking  the  little  patriotic  emblem  which  he  re- 
moved from  his  khaki  coat.     "Thank  you." 

Tom  almost  hoped  she  would  suggest  that  he 
pin  it  on  for  her.  He  stood  for  a  few  moments 
longer  and  then,  as  he  could  think  of  nothing  more 
to  say,  moved  rather  awkwardly  toward  the  door. 

"You  look  splendid  to-day,  Tom,"  Miss  Ellison 
said.  "You  look  like  a  real  soldier  in  your 
khaki." 

"The  woman  where  I  board  pressed  it  for  me 
yesterday,"  he  said,  blushing. 

"It  looks  very  nice." 

Tom  went  down  in  the  elevator,  and  when  it 


THE  CUP  OF  JOY  31 

stopped  rather  suddenly  at  the  ground  floor  it 
gave  him  exactly  the  same  feeling  that  he  had  ex- 
perienced while  he  talked  to  Miss  Ellison.   .  .  . 

Roscoe  Bent  was  not  at  his  desk  as  he  passed 
the  teller's  window  and  glanced  through  it,  but  he 
did  not  think  much  of  that,  for  it  was  early  in  the 
day  and  the  sprightly  Roscoe  might  be  in  any 
one  of  a  dozen  places  thereabout.  He  might  be 
up  in  the  Temple  Camp  office,  even. 

John  Temple,  founder  of  Temple  Camp  and 
president  of  the  bank,  sat  at  his  sumptuous  desk 
in  his  sumptuous  office  and  motioned  Tom  to  one 
of  the  big  leather  chairs,  the  luxuriousness  of 
which  disconcerted  him  almost  as  much  as  had 
Miss  Ellison's  friendliness. 

"I  told  Margaret  to  send  you  down  as  soon  as 
you  came  in,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Temple,  as  he 
opened  his  mail.  "I  want  to  get  this  matter  ofi 
my  mind  before  I  forget  it.  You  know  that  Gen- 
eral Merrill  is  going  to  be  here  to-night,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"I  heard  the  committee  was  trying  to  get  him." 

"Well,  they've  got  him,  and  the  governor's 
going  to  be  here,  too;  did  you  hear  that?" 

"I've  just  got  word  from  his  secretary  that  he 

"No,  sir,  I  didn't,"  said  Tom,  surprised. 


32     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

can  spend  an  hour  in  our  little  berg  and  say  a 
few  words  at  the  meeting  to-night.  Now  listen 
carefully,  my  boy,  for  I've  only  a  few  minutes  to 
talk  to  370U.  This  thing  necessitates  some  elev- 
enth-hour preparation.  The  plan  is  to  have  a 
member  from  every  local  organization  in  town  to 
form  a  committee  to  receive  the  governor  and  the 
general.     That's  about  all  there  is  to  it. 

"There's  the  Board  of  Trade,  and  the  Commu- 
nity Council,  and — let's  see — the  churches  and  the 
Home  Defense  and  the  Red  Cross  and  the  Daugh- 
ters of  Liberty  and  the  Citizens'  Club,  and  the 
Boy  Scouts." 

Already  Tom  felt  flattered. 

"Each  of  these  organizations  has  designated 
one  of  its  members  to  act  on  the  committee.  I 
had  Mr.  Ellsworth  on  the  phone  this  morning 
and  told  him  he'd  have  to  represent  the  scouts. 
He  said  he'd  do  no  such  thing — that  he  wasn't  a 
boy  scout." 

"He's  the  best  scout  of  all  of  us,"  said  Tom. 

"He  says  you're  the  best,"  retorted  Mr.  Tem- 
ple; "so  there  you  are." 

"Roy's  got  twice  as  many  merit  badges  as  I 
have,"  said  Tom. 

"Well,  you've  got  long  trousers,  anyway,"  said 


THE  CUP  OF  JOY  33 

Mr.  Temple,  "and  Mr.  Ellsworth  says  you're  the 
representative  scout,  so  I  guess  you're  in  for  it." 
"M-me?" 

"Now,  pay  attention.  You're  to  knock  off 
work  at  the  registration  places  at  five  o'clock  and 
go  up  to  the  Community  Council  rooms,  where 
you'll  meet  these  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  are  to 
form  the  reception  committee.  Reverend  Doctor 
Wade  will  be  looking  for  you,  and  he'll  take  you 
in  hand  and  tell  you  just  what  to  do.  There  won't 
be  much.  I  think  the  idea  is  to  meet  the  governor 
and  the  general  with  automobiles  and  escort  them 
up  to  the  Lyceum.  The  committee'll  sit  on  the 
platform,  I  suppose.  Doctor  Wade  will  prob- 
ably do  all  the  talking.  .  .  .  You're  not  timid 
about  it,  are  you?"  he  added,  looking  up  and 
smiling. 

"Kind  of,  but " 

"Oh,  nonsense;  you  just  do  what  the  others  do. 
Here — here's  a  reception  committee  badge  for  you 
to  wear.  This  is  one  of  the  burdens  of  being  a 
public  character,  Tom,"  he  added  slyly.  "Mr. 
Ellsworth's  right,  no  doubt;  if  the  scouts  are  to 
be  represented  at  all  they  should  be  represented 
by  a  scout.  Don't  be  nervous;  just  do  as  the 
others  do,  and  you'll  get  away  with  it  all  right. 


34    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

Now  ran  along.  I  suppose  I'll  be  on  the  plat- 
form too,  so  I'll  see  you  there.  .  .  .  You  look 
pretty  nifty,"  he  added  pleasantly,  as  Tom  took 
the  ribbon  badge. 

"Mrs.  Culver  pressed  it  for  me,"  said  Tom. 
"It  had  a  stain,  but  she  got  it  off  with  gasoline." 

"Good  for  her." 

"Would — do  you  think  it  would  be  all  right  to 
wear  my  Gold  Cross?" 

"You  bet!"  said  Mr.  Temple,  busy  with  his 
mail.  "If  I  had  the  scouts'  Gold  Cross  for  life- 
saving,  I'd  wear  it,  and  I'd  have  an  electric  light 
next  to  it,  like  the  tail  light  on  an  automobile  to 
show  the  license  number." 

Tom  laughed.  He  found  it  easy  to  laugh.  He 
was  nervous,  almost  to  the  point  of  panic,  but  his 
heart  was  dancing  with  joy. 

"All  right,  my  boy,"  laughed  Mr.  Temple. 
"Go  along  now,  and  good  luck  to  you." 

As  Tom  went  out  of  Mr.  Temple's  office  he 
seemed  to  move  on  wings.  He  was  half  fright- 
ened, but  happy  as  he  had  never  been  in  all  his 
life.  His  cup  of  joy  was  overflowing.  He  had 
been  through  the  ordeal  of  more  than  one  gener- 
ous ovation  from  his  comrades  in  the  troop;  he 
had  stood  awkward  and  stolid  with  that  charac- 


THE  CUP  OF  JOY  35 

teristic  frown  of  his  while  receiving  the  precious 
Gold  Cross  which  this  night  he  would  wear. 

But  this  was  different — oh,  so  different!  He, 
Tom  Slade,  was  to  help  receive  the  governor  of 
the  state  and  one  of  Uncle  Sam's  famous  gener- 
als. The  Boy  Scouts  were  to  be  represented  be- 
cause the  Boy  Scouts  had  to  be  reckoned  with  on 
these  occasions,  and  he,  Tom  Slade,  organizer  of 
the  Elk  Patrol  and  now  assistant  to  the  scout- 
master, was  chosen  for  this  honor. 

"I'm  glad  I  had  my  suit  pressed,"  he  thought. 

What  a  day  it  had  been  for  him  so  far!  He 
had  had  a  little  chat  with  Margaret  Ellison,  she 
had  said  she  liked  him — anyway,  she  had  almost 
said  it,  and  she  had  taken  the  little  emblem  from 
him  and  had  said  that  if  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
do  a  thing  he  would  do  it.  He  remembered  the 
very  words.  Then  he  had  gone  downstairs  and 
received  this  overwhelming  news  from  Mr.  Tem- 
ple. What  if  he  had  planted  his  seeds  wrong  and 
bored  holes  slantingways  instead  of  straight?  He 
was  so  proud  and  happy  now  that  he  added  the 
official,  patented  scout  smile  to  his  sumptuous  re- 
galia and  smiled  all  over  his  face. 

He  was  usually  rather  timid  about  speaking  to 
the  men  in  the  bank  unless  they  spoke  to  him  first, 


3  6    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

for  the  bank  was  an  awesome  place  to  him;  but 
.  to-day  he  was  not  afraid,  and  his  recollection  of 
the  pleasant  little  chat  upstairs  reminded  him  of 
a  fine  thing  to  do. 

"Is  Rossie  Bent  here?"  he  asked,  stopping  at 
the  teller's  cage. 

"Bent!"  called  the  teller. 

Tom  waited  in  suspense. 

"Not  here,"  called  a  voice  from  somewhere 
beyond. 

"Not  here,"  repeated  the  teller,  and  added: 
"Asleep  at  the  switch,  I  dare  say." 

Evidently  the  people  of  the  bank  had  Roscoe's 
number.  A  strange  feeling  came  over  Tom  which 
chilled  his  elation  and  troubled  him.  Irresistibly 
there  rose  in  his  mind  a  picture  of  a  waiting  auto- 
mobile, of  a  dark  figure,  and  a  silent  departure 
late  at  night. 

"I  guess  maybe  he's  just  stopped  to  register, 
hey?"  said  Tom. 

"Stopped  for  something  or  other,  evidently," 
said  the  teller. 

"Could  I  speak  to  Mr.  Temple's  secretary?" 
Tom  asked. 

Mr.  Temple's  secretary,  a  brisk  little  man, 
came  out,  greeting  Tom  pleasantly. 


THE  CUP  OF  JOY  37 

"Congratulations,"  said  he. 

"I  meant  to  ask  Mr.  Temple  if  I  could  have  a 
couple  of  reserved  seat  tickets  for  the  patriotic 
meeting  to-night,"  said  Tom,  "but  I  was  kind  of 
flustered  and  forgot  about  it.  I  could  get  them 
later,  I  guess,  but  if  you  have  any  here  I'd  like 
to  get  a  couple  now  because  I  want  to  give  them 
to  some  one." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  secretary,  in  genial  acqui- 
escence; "just  a  minute." 

Tom  went  up  in  the  elevator  holding  the  two 
tickets  in  his  hand.  If  his  joy  was  darkened  by 
any  growing  shadow  of  apprehension,  he  put  the 
unpleasant  thought  away  from  him.  He  was  too 
generous  to  harbor  it;  yet  a  feeling  of  uneasiness 
beset  him. 

As  he  entered  the  office,  Margaret  Ellison 
smiled  broadly. 

"You  knew  what  it  was?"  he  said  boldly. 

"Certainly  I  knew,  and  isn't  it  splendid!" 

"I  got  two  tickets,"  said  Tom,  "for  reserved 
seats  down  front.  They're  in  the  third  row.  I 
was  going  to  give  them  to  Roscoe  and  tell  him 
to  take — to  ask  you  to  go.  But  he's — he's  late — 
I  guess  he  stopped  to  register.    So  I'll  give  them 


38     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

to  you,  and  when  he  comes  up  you  can  tell  him 
about  it." 

"I'll  give  them  to  him  and  say  you  asked 
me  to." 

"All  right,"  Tom  said  hesitatingly;  "then  he'll 
ask  you." 

"Perhaps." 

She  disappeared  into  the  little  inner  office  where 
Mr.  Burton  was  waiting  to  dictate  his  mail,  and 
Tom  strolled  over  to  the  big  window  which  over- 
looked Barrel  Alley  and  gazed  down  upon  that 
familiar,  sordid  place. 

It  was  a  long  road  from  that  squalid  tenement 
down  there  to  a  place  on  the  committee  which 
was  to  receive  the  governor  of  the  state.  Over 
there  to  the  left,  next  to  Barrey's  junk  shop,  was 
poor  Ching  Wo's  laundry,  into  which  Tom  had 
hurled  muddy  barrel  staves.  And  that  brick  house 
with  the  broken  window  was  where  "Slats"  Cor- 
bett,  former  lieutenant  of  Tom's  gang,  had  lived. 

A  big  lump  came  up  in  his  throat  as  he  thought 
over  the  whole  business  now  and  of  where  the 
scout  trail  had  brought  him.     Oh,  he  was  happy! 

The  bright  spring  sunshine  which  poured  in 
through  the  window  on  that  wonderful  morning, 
the    flags   which   waved    gayly   here    and   there, 


THE  CUP  OF  JOY  39 

seemed  to  reflect  his  own  joy,  and  he  was  over- 
whelmed with  the  sense  of  triumph. 

"That  was  a  good  trail  I  hit,  all  right,"  he  said 
to  himself.  He  could  not  have  said  it  out  loud 
without  his  voice  breaking. 

One  thing  he  wished  in  those  few  minutes  of 
exultation.  He  wished  that  his  mother  might  be 
there  to  see  him  on  the  stage,  a  conspicuous  part 
of  that  patriotic  demonstration,  with  the  Gold 
Cross  of  the  scouts  upon  his  left  breast.  That 
would  make  the  cup  of  joy  overflow. 

But  since  that  could  not  be,  the  next  best  thing 
would  be  the  knowledge  that  Margaret  Ellison 
would  be  sitting  there  in  the  third  row,  looking 
ever  so  pretty,  and  would  see  him,  and  notice  the 
Gold  Cross  and  wonder  what  it  meant. 

"I'm  glad  I  never  wore  it  to  the  office,"  he 
mused. 

And  Roscoe  Bent,  with  all  his  sprightly  man- 
ners and  fine  airs,  would  see  where  this  good  scout 
trail,  which  he  had  ridiculed,  had  brought  Tom. 

"It's  a  bully — old — trail — it  is,"  he  said  to  him- 
self; "it's  one  good  old  trail,  all  right." 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  rubbed  his 
eyes.  Perhaps  the  bright  sunlight  was  too  strong 
for  them. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE   MAIN  TRAIL1 

But  a  trail  is  a  funny  thing.  It  is  full  of  sur- 
prises and  hard  to  follow.  For  one  thing,  you 
can  never  tell  just  where  it  is  going  to  bring  you 
out.  There  is  the  main  trail  and  there  are  branch 
trails,  and  it  is  often  puzzling  to  determine  which 
is  the  main  trail  and  which  the  branch. 

Yet  you  must  determine  this  somehow,  for  the 
one  may  lead  you  to  food  and  shelter,  to  triumph 
and  honor  perhaps;  while  the  other,  which  may  be 
ever  so  clear  and  inviting,  will  lead  you  into  bog 
and  mire;  so  you  have  to  be  careful. 

Of  one  thing  you  may  be  certain :  there  are  not 
often  two  trails  to  the  same  place.  You  must 
pick  one  branch  or  the  other.  You  must  know 
where  you  want  to  go,  and  then  hit  the  right  trail. 
You  must  not  be  fooled  by  a  side  trail  just  be- 
cause it  happens  to  be  broad  and  easy  and  pleas- 
ant. There  are  ways  of  telling  which  is  the  right 
trail,  and  you  must  learn  those  ways;  otherwise 
you  are  not  a  good  scout. 

40 


THE  MAIN  TRAIL  41 

Upon  the  sleeve  of  Tom  Slack's  khaki  jacket 
was  seen  the  profile  of  an  Indian.  It  was  the 
scouts'  merit  badge  for  pathfinding.  It  meant 
that  he  knew  every  trail  and  byway  for  miles 
about  Temple  Camp.  It  meant  that  he  had  pickea 
his  way  where  there  was  no  trail,  through  a  dense 
and  tangled  wilderness ;  that  he  had  found  his  way 
by  night  to  a  deserted  hunting  shack  on  the  sum- 
mit of  a  lonely  wooded  mountain  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Temple  Camp  and  that  he  had  later 
blazed  a  trail  to  that  isolated  spot. 

Even  Rossie  Bent  had  opened  his  eyes  at  Tom's 
simple,  unboastful  narrative  of  this  exploit,  and 
had  followed  Tom's  finger  on  the  office  map  as  he 
traced  that  blazed  trail  from  the  wood's  edge  near 
the  camp  up  through  the  forest  and  along  the 
brook  to  the  very  summit  of  the  frowning  height, 
from  which  the  nickering  lights  of  Temple  Camp 
could  be  seen  in  the  distance. 

"I'll  bet  not  many  people  go  up  there,"  Roscoe 
had  said. 

So  it  was  natural  that  when  Tom  looked  back 
and  thought  of  his  career  as  a  scout,  of  his  rise 
from  squalor  and  vicious  mischief  to  this  level  of 
manliness  and  deserved  honor,  he  should  think  of 
it  as  a  trail — a  good  scout  trail  which  he  had 


42     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

picked  up  and  followed.  Down  there  in  the  mud 
of  Barrel  Alley  it  had  begun,  and  see  where  it 
had  led!  To  the  platform  of  the  Bridgeboro 
Lyceum  where  he,  Tom  Slade,  would  wear  his 
Gold  Cross,  which  every  citizen  at  that  patriotic 
Registration  Day  celebration  might  see,  and  would 
represent  the  First  Bridgeboro  Troop,  B.  S.  A, 
in  the  town's  welcome  to  the  governor ! 

Oh,  he  was  happy! 

"It's  good  I  didn't  listen  to  Slats  Corbett  and 
Sweet  Caporal,"  he  mused.  "I  hit  the  right  trail, 
all  right.     I  bet  if " 

The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  Mr.  Brown 
from  the  bank  entered  with  another  gentleman, 
who  appeared  greatly  disturbed. 

"Has  Rossie  Bent  been  up  here  to-day?"  Mr. 
Brown  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Tom.  He  felt  his  own  voice 
tremble  a  little,  and  he  realized  that  something 
was  wrong. 

"This  is  Mr.  Bent,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  "Ros- 
coe's  father.  Roscoe  hasn't  been  seen  since  last 
night,  and  his  father  is  rather  concerned  about 
him." 

"You  haven't  seen  him — to-day?"  Mr.  Bent 
asked  anxiously. 


THE  MAIN  TRAIL  43 

"No,  sir,"  said  Tom. 

The  two  men  looked  soberly  at  each  other,  and 
Tom  went  over  to  the  door  of  the  private  office, 
which  stood  ajar,  and  quietly  closed  it. 

"Mr.  Burton  is  busy,"  he  said. 

"We  might  ask  him,"  Mr.  Brown  suggested. 

For  the  space  of  a  few  seconds  Tom  stood  un- 
easily trying  to  muster  the  courage  to  speak. 

"It — it  wouldn't  be  any  good  to  let  a  lot  of 
people  know,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  but  looking 
straight  at  Roscoe's  father.  "Mr.  Burton  only 
got  here  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  he  couldn't  tell 
anything. — If  you  spoke  to  him,  Miss  Ellison 
would  know  about  it  too." 

He  spoke  with  great  difficulty  and  not  without 
a  tremor  in  his  voice,  but  his  meaning  reached  the 
troubled  father,  who  nodded  as  if  he  understood. 

"It's  early  yet,"  Tom  ventured;  "maybe  he'll 
think  it  over,  kind  of,  and — and " 

"Thank  you,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Bent  soberly. 

The  two  men  stood  a  moment,  as  if  not  know- 
ing what  to  do  next.  Then  they  left,  and  Tom  re- 
mained standing  just  where  he  was.  Of  course, 
he  was  not  surprised,  only  shocked. 

"I  knew  it  all  the  time,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"only  I  wouldn't  admit  it." 


44    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS    . 

He  had  been  too  generous  to  face  the  ugly  fact. 
To  him,  who  wished  to  go  to  war,  the  very 
thought  of  slacking  and  cowardice  seemed  prepos- 
terous— impossible. 

"I  was  just  kidding  myself,"  he  said,  with  his 
usual  blunt  honesty,  but  with  a  wistful  note  of  dis- 
appointment. "There's  no  use  trying  to  kid  your- 
self— there  ain't." 

Mr.  Burton  came  out  with  his  usual  smiling 
briskness  and  greeted  Tom  pleasantly.  "Con- 
gratulations, Tommy,"  said  he.  "I  suppose  I'll 
see  you  among  the  big  guns  to-night.  You  leav- 
ing soon?" 

"Y-yes,  sir,  in  a  few  minutes." 

"Miss  Ellison  and  I  are  so  unpatriotic  that 
we're  going  to  work  till  the  parade  begins  this 
afternoon." 

"I  don't  suppose  he'll  even  notice  us  to-mor- 
row," teased  the  girl,  "he'll  be  so  proud." 

Tom  smiled  uncomfortably  and  wandered  over 
to  the  window  where,  but  a  few  minutes  before, 
he  had  looked  out  with  such  pride  and  happiness. 
He  did  not  feel  very  happy  now. 

Close  by  him  was  a  table  on  which  were  strewn 
photographs  of  Temple  Camp  and  the  adjacent 
lake,  a  few  birch  bark  ornaments,  carved  canes, 


THE  MAIN  TRAIL  45 

and  other  specimens  of  handiwork  which  scouts 
had  made  there.  There  was  also  a  large  port- 
folio with  plans  of  the  cabins  and  pavilion  and 
rough  charts  and  diagrams  of  the  locality. 

Tom  had  shown  this  portfolio  to  many  callers 
— scoutmasters  and  parents  of  scouts — who  had 
come  to  make  inquiries  about  the  woodland  com- 
munity. He  had  shown  it  to  Roscoe  Bent  only 
the  day  before  and,  as  we  know,  he  had  been 
greatly  pleased  at  the  lively  interest  which  that 
worldly  young  gentleman  had  shown. 

He  opened  the  portfolio  idly  now,  and  as  he 
did  so  his  gaze  fell  upon  the  map  which  showed 
the  wooded  hill  and  the  position  of  the  lonesome 
shack  upon  its  summit.  He  called  to  mind  with 
what  pride  he  had  traced  his  own  blazed  path  up 
through  the  forest  and  how  Roscoe  had  followed 
him,  plying  him  with  questions. 

Then,  suddenly,  like  a  bolt  out  of  the  sky,  there 
flashed  into  Tom's  mind  a  suspicion  which,  but  for 
his  generous,  unsuspecting  nature,  he  might  have 
had  before.  Was  that  why  Roscoe  Bent  had  been 
so  interested  in  the  little  hunting  shack  on  the 
mountain?  Was  that  why  he  had  asked  if  any 
one  ever  went  up  there;  why  he  had  inquired  if 
there  were  fish  to  be  caught  in  the  brook  and  game 


46     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

to  be  hunted  in  the  neighborhood?  Was  that  why 
he  had  been  so  particular  about  the  blazed  path, 
and  whether  there  was  a  fireplace  in  or  near  the 

,  shack?     Had  he  been  thinking  of  it  as  a  safe 

I 

refuge,  a  place  of  concealment  for  a  person  who 
had  shirked  his  duty? 

"He  could  never  live  there,"  said  Tom;  "he 
could  never  even  get  there." 

As  the  certainty  grew  in  his  mind,  he  was  a 
little  chagrined  at  his  own  credibility,  but  he  was 
more  ashamed  for  Roscoe. 

"I  might  have  known,"  he  said,  "that  he  wasn't 
really  interested  in  camping.  .  .  .  He's  a  fool  to 
think  he  can  do  that." 

To  Tom,  who  longed  to  go  to  war  and  who  was 
deterred  only  by  his  promise  to  Mr.  Ellsworth, 
the  extremity  that  Roscoe  had  evidently  gone  to 
in  the  effort  to  escape  service  seemed  unbelievable. 
But  that  was  his  game,  and  Tom  saw  the  whole 
thing  now  as  plain  as  day.  It  made  him  almost 
sick  to  think  of  it.  While  he,  Tom,  would  be 
handing  badges  to  the  throng  of  proud  and  lucky 
young  men  just  fresh  from  registering,  while  he 
sat  upon  the  platform  and  listened  to  the  music 
and  the  speeches  in  their  honor,  Roscoe  Bent 
would  be  tracing  his  lonely  way  up  that  distant 


THE  MAIN  TRAIL  47 

mountain  with  the  insane  notion  of  camping  there. 
He  would  try  to  cheat  the  government  and  dis- 
grace his  family. 

"I  don't  see  how  he  could  do  that — I  don't," 
said  Tom.  "I  wonder  what  his  father  would  say 
if  he  knew. — I  wonder  what  Miss  Ellison  would 
say.     I  wonder  what  his  mother  would  think." 

He  looked  down  again  into  Barrel  Alley,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  tenement  where  he  and  his 
poor  mother  and  his  wretched  father  had  lived. 
But  he  was  not  thinking  of  his  mother  now — he 
was  thinking  of  Roscoe  Bent's  mother  and  of  his 
troubled  father,  going  from  place  to  place  and 
searching  in  vain  for  his  fugitive  son. 

"If  I  told  him,"  thought  Tom,  "it  would  queer 
Roscoe.  It  wouldn't  do  for  anybody  to  know. 
...  I  just  got  to  go  and  bring  him  back.  .  .  . 
Maybe  they'd  let  him  register  to-morrow.  He 
could  say — he  could  say  anything  he  wanted  to 
about  why  he  was  away  on  the  fifth  of  June.  If 
he  comes  back  they'll  let  him  register,  but  if  he 
doesn't  they'll  find  him;  they'll  put  his  name  in 
newspapers  and  lists  and  they'll  find  him.  I  just 
got  to  go  and  bring  him  back.  And  I  got  to  go 
without  telling  anybody  anything,  too." 

For  a  few  moments  longer  he  stood  gazing  out 


48     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

of  the  window  down  into  that  muddy  alley  where 
the  good  scout  trail  to  honor  and  achievement  had 
begun  for  him.  For  a  few  moments  he  thought  of 
where  it  had  brought  him  and  of  the  joy  and  ful- 
fillment which  awaited  him  this  very  night.  He 
wondered  what  people  would  say  if  he  were  not 
there.  Well,  in  any  event,  they  would  not  call  him 
a  slacker  or  a  coward.  He  felt  that  there  was  no 
danger  of  being  misjudged  if  he  did  his  highest 
duty. 

"It's  kind  of  like  a  branch  trail  I  got  to  fol- 
low," he  said,  his  voice  breaking  a  little.  "I  said 
it  was  a  good  trail,  but  now  I  see  there's  a  branch 
trail  that  goes  off,  kind  of,  and  I  got  to  follow 
that    ..." 

But,  of  course,  it  wasn't  a  branch  trail  at  all — 
it  was  the  main  trail,  the  true  scout  trail,  which, 
forgetting  all  else,  he  was  resolved  to  follow. 


CHAPTER    VI 

TOM   AND   THE    GOLD    CROSS 

Mr.  Ellsworth  was  right  when  he  said  that 
Tom  had  a  way  of  doping  things  out  for  himself. 
He  had  picked  up  scouting  without  much  help, 
and  he  seldom  asked  advice. 

His  duty  was  very  clear  to  him  now.  As  long 
as  no  one  but  himself  and  Roscoe  knew  about  this 
miserable  business,  the  mistake  could  be  mended 
and  no  harm  come  of  it. 

The  thing  was  so  important  that  the  smaller 
evil  of  neglecting  his  allotted  task  and  foregoing 
the  honors  which  awaited  him  did  not  press  upon 
him  at  all.  He  was  disappointed,  of  course,  but 
he  acknowledged  no  obligation  to  anybody  now 
except  to  Roscoe  Bent  and  those  whom  his  dis- 
grace would  affect.  Wrong  or  right,  that  is  the 
way  Tom's  mind  worked. 

Quietly  he  took  his  hat  and  went  out,  softly 
closing  the  door  behind  him.  For  a  second  or 
two  he  waited  in  the  hall.    He  could  still  hear  the 

49 


50     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

muffled  sound  of  the  typewriter  machine  in  the 
office. 

As  he  went  down  in  the  elevator  he  heard  two 
gentlemen  talking  about  the  celebration  that  even- 
ing and  about  the  governor's  coming.  Tom  lis- 
tened wistfully  to  their  conversation. 

He  had  already  taken  from  his  pocket  (what 
he  always  carried  as  his  heart's  dearest  treasure) 
a  dilapidated  bank  book.  He  intended  to  draw 
ten  dollars  from  his  savings  account,  which  would 
be  enough  to  get  him  to  Catskill  Landing,  the 
nearest  railroad  point  to  camp,  and  to  pay  the 
return  fare  for  himself  and  Roscoe. 

But  the  bank  was  closed  and  Tom  was  con- 
fronted by  a  large  placard  in  the  big  glass  doors : 

CLOSED  IN  HONOR  OF  OUR  BOYS. 

Don't  Forget  the  Patriotic  Rally  To-night. 
Do  Your  Bit  ! 

You  Can  Cheer  If  You  Can't  Register. 

He  had  forgotten  that  the  bank  was  to  close 
early.  Besides  spoiling  his  plan,  it  reminded  him 
that  the  town  was  turning  out  in  gala  fashion,  and 
his  thoughts  turned  again  to  the  celebration  in  the 
evening. 


TOM  AND  THE  GOLD  CROSS      51 

"I  gotta  keep  in  the  right  trail,"  he  said  dog- 
gedly, as  he  turned  toward  home. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  do  now,  for  he  had 
less  than  a  dollar  in  his  pocket,  and  he  was  stub- 
bornly resolved  to  take  no  one  into  his  confidence. 
If  he  had  the  money,  he  could  catch  a  train  before 
noontime  and  reach  the  mountain  by  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon.  He  would  make  a  short  cut  from 
the  railroad  and  not  go  up  through  Leeds  or  to 
Temple  Camp  at  all. 

As  he  walked  along  he  noticed  that  the  street 
was  gay  with  bunting.  In  almost  every  shop  win- 
dow was  a  placard  similar  to  the  one  in  the  bank. 
A  large  banner  suspended  across  the  street  read: 

DON'T     FORGET    THE     RALLY 

IN  HONOR  OF  OUR  BOYS 

TO-NIGHT! 

"I  ain't  likely  to  forget  it,"  he  muttered. 

He  wondered  how  Roscoe's  father  felt  when  he 
saw  that  banner  and  this  thought  strengthened  his 
determination  so  that  he  ignored  the  patriotic  re- 
minders all  about  him,  and  plodded  stolidly  along, 
his  square  face  set  in  a  kind  of  sullen  frown. 

"It's  being — with  the  Colors,  just  the  same," 
he  said,  "only  in  another  kind  of  way — sort  of." 


52     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

As  he  turned  into  West  Street  he  noticed  on  the 
big  bulletin  board  outside  the  Methodist  Church 
the  words: 

THE  GOVERNOR  WILL  BE  ON  THE 

PLATFORM 

OUR  BOYS  WILL  BE  IN  THE  TRENCHES 

THE  BOY  SCOUTS  ARE  ON  THE  JOB 

AND  DON'T  YOU  FORGET  IT! 

"They're  a  live  bunch,  that  Methodist  Troop, 
all  right,"  commented  Tom. 

He  raised  his  hand  and  gently  lifted  aside  a 
great  flag  which  hung  so  low  over  the  sidewalk 
that  he  could  not  walk  under  it  without  stooping. 

"Just  the  same,  I  can  say  I'm  with  the  Colors," 
he  repeated.  "You  can  be  with  them  even  if — 
even  if  they  ain't  around " 

He  had  evidently  hit  on  some  plan,  for  he 
walked  briskly  now  through  Culver  Street,  his  lips 
set  tight,  making  his  big  mouth  seem  bigger  still. 

He  entered  the  house  quietly  and  went  up  to  the 
little  room  which  he  occupied.  It  was  very  small, 
with  a  single  iron  bed,  a  chair,  a  walnut  bureau, 
and  a  little  table  whereon  lay  his  Scout  Manual 
and  the  few  books  which  he  owned.     Outside  the 


TOM  AND  THE  GOLD  CROSS      53 

window,  on  its  pine  stick,  hung  a  stiff  muslin  flag 
which  he  had  bought. 

He  unlocked  the  top  bureau  drawer  and  took 
out  a  tin  lock-box.  This  box  was  his  pride,  and 
whenever  he  took  it  out  he  felt  like  a  millionaire. 
He  had  gazed  at  it  in  the  window  of  a  stationery 
store  for  many  weeks  and  then,  one  Saturday,  he 
had  gone  in  and  bought  it  for  a  dollar  and  a 
half. 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  now,  with  the  box 
on  his  knees,  and  rummaged  among  its  contents. 
There  was  the  pocket  flashlight  his  patrol  had 
given  him;  there  was  the  scout  jack-knife  which 
had  been  a  present  from  Roy's  sister;  an  Indian 
arrow-head  that  Jeb  Rushmore  had  found;  a 
memorandum  of  the  birthday  of  his  patrol,  and 
the  birthdays  of  its  members,  and  a  clipping  from 
a  local  paper  describing  how  Tom  Slade  had 
saved  a  scout's  life  at  Temple  Camp  and  won  the 
Gold  Cross. 

From  the  bottom  of  this  treasure  chest  he  lifted 
out  a  plush  box  which  he  rubbed  on  his  knee  to 
get  the  dust  off,  and  then  opened  it  slowly,  care- 
fully.   He  never  tired  of  doing  this. 

As  he  lifted  the  cover  the  sunlight  poured  down 
out  of  the  blue,  cloudless  sky  of  that  perfect  day, 


54    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

streaming  cheerily  into  the  plain  little  room  which 
was  all  the  home  Tom  had,  and  fell  upon  the  glit- 
tering medal,  making  it  shine  with  a  dazzling 
brightness. 

Often  when  Tom  read  of  the  Iron  Cross  being 
awarded  to  a  submarine  commander,  or  a  German 
spy,  or  a  Zeppelin  captain  for  some  unspeakable 
deed,  he  would  come  home  and  look  at  his  own 
precious  Gold  Cross  of  the  Scouts  and  think  what 
it  meant — heroism,  real  heroism ;  bravery  un- 
tainted; courage  without  any  brutal  motive;  the 
courage  that  saves,  not  destroys. 

He  breathed  upon  the  rich  gold  now  (though 
it  needed  no  polishing)  and  rubbed  it  with  his 
handkerchief.  Then  he  sat  looking  at  it  long  and 
steadily.  There,  shining  under  his  eyes,  was  the 
familiar  design,  the  three-pointed  sign  of  the 
scouts,  with  the  American  eagle  superimposed 
upon  it,  as  if  Uncle  Sam  and  the  scouts  were  in 
close  partnership. 

Tom  remembered  that  the  Handbook,  in  de- 
scribing the  scout  sign,  referred  to  it  as  neither  an 
arrow-head  nor  a  fleur-de-lis,  though  resembling 
both,  but  as  a  modified  form  of  the  sign  of  the 
north  on  the  mariner's  compass. 

"Maybe  it's  like  a  fleur-de-lis,  so  as  to  remind 


TOM  AND  THE  GOLD  CROSS       $$ 

us  of  France,  kind  of,"  Tom  said,  as  he  rubbed 

the  medal  again,  "and " 

Suddenly  a  thought  flashed  into  his  mind, 
"And  it's  pointing  to  the  north,  too!  It's  the 
compass  sign  of  the  north,  and  it  tells  me  where 
to  go,  'cause  Temple  Camp  and  that  hill  are  north 
from  here.  .  .  .  Gee,  that's  funny,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  how  that  Gold  Cross  can  kind 
of  remind  you — of  everything,  .  .  .  Now  I 
know  I  got  to  do  it.  .  .  .  Nobody  could  tell  me 
what  I  ought  to  do,  'cause  the  Gold  Cross  has 
told  me.  .  .  .  And  it'll  help  me  to  ...  it 
will    .    .    ." 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE  TRAIL  RUNS  THROUGH  A  PESTILENT  PLACE 

If  Tom  had  entertained  any  lingering  misgiv- 
ings as  to  his  path  of  duty,  he  cast  them  from  him 
now.  If  he  had  harbored  any  doubts  as  to  his 
success,  he  banished  them.  Uncle  Sam,  poor 
bleeding,  gallant  France,  and  the  voice  of  the 
scout,  had  all  spoken  to  him  out  of  the  face  of  the 
wonderful  Gold  Cross,  and  he  wanted  no  better 
authority  than  this  for  something  which  he  must 
do  in  order  to  be  off  on  his  errand. 

Cheerfully  removing  his  holiday  regalia,  he 
donned  a  faded  and  mended  khaki  suit  and  a  pair 
of  worn  trousers,  and  as  he  did  so  he  gave  a  little 
rueful  chuckle  at  the  thought  of  poor  Roscoe 
struggling  with  the  tangled  thicket  in  a  regular 
suit  of  clothes  and  without  any  of  the  facilities 
that  a  scout  would  be  sure  to  take. 

He  slipped  on  an  old  coat,  into  the  pocket  of 
which  he  put  his  flashlight,  some  matches  in  an 
airtight  box,  his  scout  knife  and  a  little  bottle  of 

56 


A  PESTILENT  PLACE  57 

antiseptic.  Thus  equipped,  he  felt  natural  and  at 
home,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  meant  business. 

Putting  the  plush  box  into  his  pocket,  he  de- 
scended the  stairs  quietly  and  slipped  into  the 
street.  He  hurried  now,  for  he  wished  to  get  into 
the  city  in  time  to  catch  the  noon  train  for  Cats- 
kill. 

At  the  end  of  Culver  Street  he  turned  into  Wil- 
liams Avenue  and  hurried  along  through  its  din 
and  turmoil,  and  past  its  tawdry  shops  until  he 
came  to  one  which  he  had  not  seen  in  many  a  day. 
The  sight  of  its  dirty  window,  filled  with  a  dis- 
orderly assortment  of  familiar  articles,  took  him 
back  to  the  old  life  in  Barrel  Alley  and  the  days 
when  his  good-for-nothing  father  had  sent  him 
down  here  with  odds  and  ends  of  clothing  to  be 
turned  into  money  for  supper  or  breakfast. 

It  spoke  well  for  the  self-respect  which  Tom 
had  gained  that  he*  walked  past  this  place  several 
times  before  he  could  muster  the  courage  to  enter. 
When  he  did  enter,  the  old  familiar,  musty  smell 
'and  the  sordid  litter  of  the  shelves  renewed  his 
unhappy  memories. 

"I  have  to  get  some  money,"  he  said,  laying 
the  plush  case  on  the  counter.  "I  have  to  get  five 
dollars." 


58     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE.  COLORS 

He  knew  from  rueful  experience  that  one  can 
seldom  get  as  much  as  he  wants  in  such  a  place, 
and  five  dollars  would  at  least  get  him  to  his  des- 
tination. Surely,  he  thought,  Roscoe  would  have 
some  money. 

There  were  a  few  seconds  of  dreadful  suspense 
while  the  man  took  the  precious  Gold  Cross  over 
to  the  window  and  scrutinized  it. 

"Three,"  he  said,  coming  back  to  the  counter. 

"I  got  to  have  five,"  said  Tom. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "Three,"  he  re- 
peated. 

"I  got  to  have  five,"  Tom  insisted.  "I'm  going 
to  get  it  back  soon." 

The  man  hesitated,  and  looked  at  him  keenly. 
"All  right,  five,"  he  said  reluctantly. 

Tom's  hand  almost  trembled  as  he  emerged 
into  the  bright  sunlight,  thrusting  the  ticket  into  a 
pocket  which  he  seldom  used.  He  had  not  exam- 
ined it,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  read  it  or  be  re- 
minded of  it.  He  felt  ashamed,  almost  degraded; 
but  he  was  satisfied  that  he  had  done  the  right 
thing. 

"I  thought  that  trail  made  a  bee-line  for  the 
platform  in  the  Lyceum,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
folded  his   five-dollar  bill.      "Gee,   it's   a   funny 


A  PESTILENT  PLACE  59 

thing;  you  never  know  where  it's  going  to  take 
you!" 

And  you  never  know  who  or  what  is  going  to 
cross  your  trail,  -either,  for  scarcely  had  he  de- 
scended the  steps  of  that  stuffy  den  when  whom 
should  he  see  staring  at  him  from  directly  across 
the  street  but  Worry  Benson  and  Will  McAdam, 
of  the  other  local  scout  troop. 

They  were  evidently  bent  on  some  patriotic 
duty  when  they  paused  in  surprise  at  seeing  him, 
for  they  had  with  them  a  big  flag  pole  and  several 
bundles  which  looked  as  if  they  might  contain 
printed  matter. 

Tom  thought  that  perhaps  these  were  a  rush 
order  of  programs  for  the  patriotic  rally,  and  he 
wondered  if  they  might  possibly  contain  his  name 
— printed  in  type. 

But  he  thrust  the  thought  away  from  him  and, 
clutching  his  five  dollars  in  his  pocket,  he  turned 
down  the  street  and  started  along  the  good  scout 
trail. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

AN   ACCIDENT 

The  latter  part  of  the  afternoon  found  Tom 
many  miles  from  Bridgeboro,  and  the  trail  which 
had  passed  through  such  sordid  and  pride-racking 
surroundings  back  in  his  home  town,  now  led  up 
through  a  quiet  woodland,  where  there  was  no 
sound  but  the  singing  of  the  birds  and  an  occa- 
sional rustle  or  breaking  of  a  twig  as  some  star- 
tled wild  creature  hurried  to  shelter. 

Through  the  intertwined  foliage  overhead  Tom 
could  catch  little  glints  of  the  blue  sky,  and  once, 
when  he  climbed  a  tree  to  get  his  bearings,  he 
could  see,  far  in  the  distance,  the  lake  and  the 
clearing  of  Temple  Camp,  and  could  even  distin- 
guish the  flagpole. 

But  no  flag  flew  from  it,  for  the  season  had  not 
yet  begun;  Jeb  Rushmore  was  on  a  visit  to  his 
former  "pals"  in  the  West,  and  the  camp  was 

60 


AN  ACCIDENT  61 

closed  tight.  Down  there  was  where  Tom  had 
won  the  Gold  Cross. 

He  would  have  liked  to  see  a  flag  waving,  for 
Bridgeboro,  with  all  its  patriotic  fervor  and  bus- 
tle, seemed  very  far  away  now,  and  though  he  was 
in  a  country  which  he  loved  and  which  meant 
much  to  him,  he  would  have  been  glad  of  some 
tangible  reminder  that  he  was,  as  he  had  told 
himself,  with  the  Colors. 

Tom  had  left  the  train  at  Catskill  Landing  and 
reached  the  hill  by  a  circuitous,  unfrequented 
route,  hoping  to  reach,  before  dark,  the  clearer 
path  which  he  himself  had  made  and  blazed  from 
the  vicinity  of  Temple  Camp  to  the  little  hunting 
shack  upon  the  hill's  summit.  This,  he  felt  sure, 
was  the  path  Roscoe  would  follow. 

It  was  almost  dark  when,  having  picked  his  way 
through  a  very  jungle  where  there  was  no  mors 
sign  of  path  than  there  is  in  the  sky,  he  emerged 
upon  the  familiar  trail  at  a  point  about  a  mile 
below  the  shack. 

He  was  breathless  from  his  tussle  with  the  tai> 
gled  underbrush,  his  old  clothes  had  some  fresh 
tears,  and  his  hands  were  cut  and  bleeding. 

For  three  solid  hours  he  had  worked  his  way 
up  through  the  tangled  forest,   and  now,   as  he 


6z     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

reached  the  little  trail  which  was  not  without  its 
own  obstacles,  it  seemed  almost  like  a  paved  thor- 
oughfare by  contrast. 

"Thank  goodness!"  he  breathed.  "It's  good 
he  didn't  have  to  go  that  way — I — could  see  his 
inish!" 

He  was  the  scout  now,  the  typical  scout — de- 
termined, resourceful;  and  his  tattered  khaki 
jacket,  his  slouched  hat,  his  rolled-up  sleeves,  and 
the  belt  axe  which  he  carried  in  his  hand,  bespoke 
the  rugged  power  and  strong  will  of  this  young 
fellow  who  had  trembled  when  Miss  Margaret 
Ellison  spoke  pleasantly  to  him. 

He  sat  down  on  a  rock  and  poured  some  anti- 
septic over  the  scratches  on  his  hands  and  arms. 

"I  can  fight  the  woods,  all  right,"  he  muttered, 
"even  if  they  won't  let  me  go  off  and  fight  the 
Germans." 

After  a  few  minutes'  rest  he  hurried  along  the 
trail,  pausing  here  and  there  and  searching  for 
any  trifling  sign  which  might  indicate  that  the 
path  had  been  recently  traveled.  Once  his  hopes 
of  finding  Roscoe  were  dashed  by  the  discovery 
of  a  cobweb  across  the  trail,  but  when  he  felt  of 
it  and  found  it  sticky  to  the  touch  he  knew  that  it 
had  just  been  made. 


AN  ACCIDENT  63 

At  last,  hard  though  the  ground  was,  he  discov- 
ered a  new  footprint,  and  presently  its  meaning 
was  confirmed  when  he  caught  a  glint  of  light  far 
ahead  of  him  among  the  trees. 

At  the  sight  of  it  his  heart  gave  a  great  bound. 
He  knew  now  for  a  certainty  that  he  was  right. 
He  had  known  it  all  along,  but  he  was  doubly 
assured  of  it  now. 

On  the  impulse  he  started  to  run,  but  his  foot 
slipped  upon  an  exposed  root,  and  as  he  fell 
sprawling  on  the  ground  his  head  struck  with  a 
violent  impact  on  a  big  stone. 

After  a  few  stunned  seconds  he  dragged  him- 
self to  a  sitting  posture;  his  head  throbbed  cruel- 
ly, and  when  he  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  he 
found  that  it  was  bleeding.  He  tried  to  stand, 
but  when  he  placed  his  weight  upon  his  left  foot 
it  gave  him  excruciating  pain. 

He  sat  down  on  the  rock,  dizzy  and  faint,  hold- 
ing his  throbbing  head  and  lifting  his  foot  to  ease, 
if  possible,  the  agonizing  pain. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  muttered  impatiently.  "I 
was  a  fool  to  start  running;  I  might  have  known 
I  was  too  tired." 

That  was  indeed  the  plain  truth  of  the  matter; 
he  was  so  weary  and  spent  that  when,  in  the  new 


64    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

assurance  of  success,  he  had  begun  to  run,  his  tired 
feet  had  dragged  and  tripped  him. 

"That's  what — you — get  for — hurrying,"  he 
breathed  heavily;  "like  Roy  always  said — more 
haste — less Ouch,  my  ankle!" 

He  tried  again  to  stand,  but  the  pain  was  too 
great,  and  his  head  swam  so  that  he  fell  back  on 
the  rock. 

"I  wish  Doc — Carson — was  here,"  he  managed 
to  say.  Doc  was  the  troop's  First-Aid  Scout.  "It 
— it  was  just — because  I  didn't — lift  my  feet — 
like  Roy's  always  telling  me — so  clumsy!" 

He  soaked  his  handkerchief  in  antiseptic  and 
bound  it  about  his  forehead,  which  was  bleeding 
less  profusely.  After  a  few  minutes,  feeling  less 
dizzy,  he  stood  upon  his  feet,  with  a  stoical  dis- 
regard of  the  pain,  determined  to  continue  his 
journey  if  he  possibly  could. 

The  agony  was  excruciating,  but  he  set  his 
strong,  thick  lips  tight,  and,  passing  from  one  tree 
to  another,  with  the  aid  of  his  hands,  he  managed 
to  get  along.  More  than  once  he  stopped,  cling- 
ing to  a  tree  trunk,  and  raised  his  foot  to  ease  the 
anguish.  His  head  throbbed  with  a  cruel,  steady 
ache,  and  the  faintness  persisted  so  that  often  he 


AN  ACCIDENT  65 

felt  he  was  about  to  reel,  and  only  kept  his  feet 
by  clinging  to  the  trees. 

"This — this  is  just  about — the  time  I'd  be  go- 
ing to  that — racket "  he  said.    "Gee,  but  that 

foot  hurts!" 

He  would  have  made  a  sorry  figure  on  the  plat- 
form. His  old  khaki  jacket  and  trousers  were 
almost  in  shreds.  Bloodstains  were  all  over  his 
shirt.  A  great  bloody  scratch  was  visible  upon 
his  cheek.  His  hands  were  cut  by  brambles. 
There  was  a  grim  look  on  his  dirty,  scarred  face. 
I  am  not  so  sure  that  he  would  have  looked  any 
nobler  if  he  had  been  in  the  first-line  trenches, 
fighting  for  Uncle  Sam.    .    .    . 


CHAPTER    IX 

ROSCOE   JOINS   THE    COLORS 

It  was  now  nearly  dark,  and  Tom  worked  his 
way  along  slowly,  hobbling  where  there  were  no 
trees,  and  grateful  for  their  support  when  he 
found  them  bordering  the  trail.  His  foot  pained 
him  exquisitely  and  he  still  felt  weak  and  dizzy. 

At  last,  after  almost  superhuman  efforts,  he 
brought  himself  within  sight  of  the  dark  outline 
of  the  shack,  which  seemed  more  lonesome  and 
isolated  than  ever  before.  He  saw  that  the  light 
was  from  a  fire  in  the  clearing  near  by,  and  a 
smaller  light  was  discernible  in  the  window  of  the 
shack  itself. 

Tom  had  always  stood  rather  in  awe  of  Roscoe 
Bent,  as  one  of  humble  origin  and  simple  ways  is 
apt  to  feel  toward  those  who  live  in  a  different 
world.  And  even  now,  in  this  altogether  strange 
situation  and  with  all  the  advantages  both  of  right 
and  courage  on  his  side,  he  could  not  repress 
something  of  the  same  feeling,  as  he  approached 
the  little  camp. 

He  dragged  himself  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the 

66 


ROSCOE  JOINS  THE  COLORS        67 

fire  and  stood  clutching  a  tree  and  leaning  against 
it  as  Roscoe  Bent,  evidently  startled,  came  out  and 
faced  him. 

A  pathetic  and  ghastly  figure  Tom  must  have 
looked  to  the  fugitive,  who  stood  staring  at  him, 
lantern  in  hand,  as  if  Tom  were  some  ghostly 
scarecrow  dropped  from  the  clouds. 

"It's  me — Tom  Slade,"  Tom  panted.  "You — 
needn't  be  scared." 

Roscoe  looked  suspiciously  about  him  and 
peered  down  the  dark  trail  behind  Tom. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  demanded 
roughly.  "Is  anybody  with  you?  Who'd  you 
bring " 

"No,  there  ain't,"  said  Tom,  almost  reeling. 
His  weakness  and  the  fear  of  collapsing  before 
he  could  speak  gave  him  courage,  but  he  forgot 
the  little  speech  which  he  had  prepared,  and 
poured  out  a  torrent  which  completely  swept 
away  any  little  advantage  of  self-possession  that 
Roscoe  might  have  had. 

"I  didn't  bring  anybody!"  he  shouted  weakly. 
"Do  you  think  I'm  a  spy?  Did  you  ever  know 
a  scout  that  was  a  sneak?  Me  and  you — are  all 
alone  here.  I  knew  you  was  here.  I  knew  you'd 
come  here,  because  you're  crazy.     I  seen — saw — 


68     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

It  was  characteristic  of  Tom  that  on  the  infre- 
quent occasions  when  he  became  angry,  or  his  feel- 
ings got  the  better  of  him,  he  would  fall  into  the 
old  illiterate  phraseology  of  Barrel  Alley.  He 
steadied  himself  against  the  tree  now  and  tried  to 
speak  more  calmly. 

"D'you  think  just  'cause  you  jollied  me  and 
made  a  fool  out  of  me  in  front  of  Miss  Ellison 
that  I  wouldn't  be  a  friend  to  you?  Do  you 
think" — he  shouted,  losing  all  control  of  himself 
— "that  because  I  didn't  know  how  to  talk  to 
you  and — and — answer  you — like — that  I  was 
a-scared  of  you?  Did  you  think  I  couldn't  find 
you  easy  enough?  Maybe  I'm — maybe  I'm  thick 
— <but  when  I  get  on  a  trail — there's — there's 
nothin'  can  stop  me.  I  got  the  strength  ter  stran- 
gle you — if  I  wanted  to!"  he  fairly  shrieked. 

Then  he  subsided  from  sheer  exhaustion. 

Roscoe  Bent  had  stood  watching  him  as  a  man 
might  watch  a  thunderstorm.  "You  hurt  your- 
self," he  said  irrelevantly. 

"It  says  in  a  paper,"  panted  Tom,  "that — that 
a  man  that's  afraid  to  die  ain't — fit  to  live.  D'you 
think  I'd  leave — I'd  let  you — stay  away  and  have 
people  callin'  you  a  coward  and  a — a  slacker — 
and  then  somebody — those  secret  service  fellows 


ROSCOE  JOINS  THE  COLORS        69 

- — come  and  get  you?  I  wouldn't  let  them  get 
you,"  he  shouted,  clutching  the  tree  to  steady  him- 
self, "  'cause  I  know  the  trail,  I  do — I'm  a  scout 
— and  /  got  here  first — I " 

His  hand  slipped  from  the  tree,  he  reeled  and 
fell  to  the  ground  too  quick  for  Roscoe  to  catch 
him. 

"It's — it's  all  right,"  he  muttered,  as  Roscoe 
bent  over  him.  "I  ain't  hurt.  .  .  .  Roll  your 
coat  up  tight — you'd  know,  if  you  was  a  scout — 
and  put  it  under  my  neck.  I — want  a  drink — of 
water.  .  .  .  You  got  to  begin  right  now  to- 
night, Rossie,  with  the  Colors;  you  got  to  begin — 
by — by  bein'  a  Red  Cross  nurse.  .  .  .  I'm  goin' 
to  call  you  Rossie  now — like  the  fellers  in  the 
bank,"  he  ended  weakly,  "  'cause  we're  friends  to 
oach  other — kind  of." 


CHAPTER    X 

TOM  AND  ROSCOE   COME  TO   KNOW  EACH   OTHER 

"I  don't  know  what  I  said,"  said  Tom;  "I  was 
kind  of  crazy,  I  guess." 

"I  guess  I'm  the  one  that  was  crazy,"  said  Ros- 
coe.     "Does  your  head  hurt  now?" 

"Nope.  It's  a  good  thick  head,  that's  one  sure 
thing.  Once  Roy  Blakeley  dropped  his  belt-axe 
on  it  around  camp-fire,  and  he  thought  he  must 
have  killed  me.  But  it  didn't  hurt  much.  Look 
out  the  coffee  don't  boil  over." 

Roscoe  Bent  looked  at  him  curiously  for  a  few 
seconds.  It  was  early  the  next  morning,  and 
Tom,  after  sleeping  fairly  well  in  the  one  rough 
bunk  in  the  shack,  was  sitting  up  and  directing 
Roscoe,  who  was  preparing  breakfast  out  of  the 
stores  which  he  had  brought. 

"I  guess  that's  why  I  didn't  get  wise  when  you 
first  asked  me  about  this  place — 'cause  my  head's 
so  thick.  Roy  claimed  he  got  a  splinter  from  my 
head.  He's  awful  funny,  Roy  is.  .  .  .  If  I'd 
'a'   known  in  time,"   he   added   impassively,    "I 

70 


TOM  AND  ROSCOE  CHUMS         71 

could  'a'  started  earlier  and  headed  you  off.  I 
wouldn't  'a'  had  to  stop  to  chop  down  trees." 

"Why  didn't  you  swim  across  the  brook?"  Ros- 
coe  asked.     "All  scouts  swim,  don't  they?" 

"Sure,  but  that's  where  Temple  Camp  gets  its 
drinking  water — from  that  brook;  and  every  scout 
promised  he  wouldn't  ever  swim  in  it.  It  wasn't 
hard,  chopping  down  the  tree." 

Roscoe  gazed  into  Tom's  almost  expressionless 
face  with  a  kind  of  puzzled  look. 

"It  don't  make  any  difference  now,"  said  Tom, 
"which  way  I  came.  Anyway,  you  couldn't  of  got 
back  yesterday — before  the  places  closed  up. 
Maybe  we've  got  to  kind  of  know  each  other,  sort 
of,  being  here  like  this.  You  got  to  camp  with  a 
feller  if  you  want  to  really  know  him." 

Roscoe  Bent  said  nothing. 

"As  long  as  you  get  back  to-day  and  register, 
it's  all  right,"  said  Tom.  "They'll  let  you.— It 
ain't  none  of  my  business  what  you  tell  'em.  You 
don't  even  have  to  tell  me  what  you're  going  to 
teU'em." 

"I  can't  tell  them  I  just  ran  away,"  said  Roscoe 
dubiously. 

"It's  none  of  my  business  what  you  tell  'em," 
repeated  Tom,  "so  long  as  you  go  back  to-day 


72     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

and  register.  When  you  get  it  over  with,  it'll  be 
all  right,"  he  added.  "/  know  how  it  was — you 
just  got  rattled.  .  .  .  The  first  time  I  got  lost 
in  the  woods  I  felt  that  way.  All  you  got  to  do 
is  to  go  back  and  say  you  want  to  register." 

"I  said  I  would,  didn't  I?"  said  Roscoe. 

"Nobody'll  ever  know  that  I  had  anything  to 
do  with  it,"  said  Tom. 

"Are  you  sure?"  Roscoe  asked  doubtfully. 

"They'd  have  to  kill  me  before  I'd  tell,"  said 
Tom. 

Roscoe  looked  at  him  again — at  the  frowning 
face  and  the  big,  tight-set  mouth — and  knew  that 
this  was  true. 

"How  about  yonV  he  asked.  "What'll  they 
think?" 

"That  don't  make  any  difference,"  said  Tom. 
"I  ain't  thinkin'  of  that.  If  you  always  do  what 
you  know  is  right,  you  needn't  worry.  You  won't 
get  misjudged.     I've  read  that  somewhere." 

Roscoe,  who  knew  more  about  the  ways  of  the 
world  than  poor  Tom  did,  shook  his  head  dubi- 
ously. He  served  the  coffee  and  some  crackers 
and  dry  breakfast  food  of  which  he  had  brought  a 
number  of  packages,  and  they  ate  of  this  make- 
shift repast  as  they  continued  their  talk. 


TOM  AND  ROSCOE  CHUMS         73 

"You  ought  to  have  brought  bacon,"  said  Tom. 
"You  must  never  go  camping  without  bacon — 
and  egg  powder.  There's  about  twenty  different 
things  you  can  do  with  egg  powder.  If  you'd 
brought  flour,  we  could  make  some  flapjacks." 

"I'm  a  punk  camper,"  admitted  Roscoe. 

"You  can  see  for  yourself,"  said  Tom,  with 
blunt  frankness,  "that  you'd  have  been  up  against 
it  here  pretty  soon.  You'd  have  had  to  go  to 
Leeds  for  stuff,  and  they'd  ask  you  for  your  regis- 
tration card,  maybe." 

"I  don't  see  how  I'm  going  to  leave  you  here," 
Roscoe  said  doubtfully. 

"I'll  be  all  right,"  said  Tom. 

"What  will  you  say  to  them  when  you  come 
home?" 

"I'll  tell  'em  I  ain't  going  to  answer  any  ques- 
tions. I'll  say  I  had  to  go  away  for  something 
very  important." 

"You'll  be  in  bad,"  Roscoe  said  thoughtfully. 

"I  won't  be  misjudged,"  said  Tom  simply;  "I 
got  the  reputation  of  being  kind  o'  queer,  anyway, 
and  they'll  just  say  I  had  a  freak.  You  can  see 
for  yourself,"  he  added,  "that  it  wouldn't  be  good 
for  us  to  go  back  together — even  if  my  foot  was 
all  right." 


74    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"It's  better,  isn't  it?"  Roscoe  asked  anxiously. 

"Sure  it  is.  It's  only  strained — that's  different 
from  being  sprained — and  my  head's  all  right 
now." 

"What  will  you  do?"  Roscoe  asked,  looking 
troubled  and  unconvinced  in  spite  of  Tom's  as- 
surances. 

"I  was  going  to  come  up  here  and  camp  alone 
over  the  Fourth  of  July,  anyway,"  said  Tom.  "I 
always  meant  to  do  that.  I'll  call  this  a  vacation 
— as  you  might  say.    I  got  to  thank  you  for  that." 

"You've  got  to  thank  me  for  a  whole  lot,"  said 
Roscoe  ironically;  "for  a  broken  head  and  a  lame 
ankle  and  missing  all  the  fun  last  night,  and  losing 
your  job,  maybe." 

"I  ain't  worryin',"  said  Tom.  "I  hit  the  right 
trail." 

"And  saved  me  from  being — no,  I'm  one,  any- 
way, now " 

"No,  you  ain't;  you  just  got  rattled.  Now  you 
-can  see  straight,  so  you  have  to  go  back  right 
away.  As  soon  as  my  foot's  better,  I'll  go  down 
to  Temple  Camp.  That'll  be  to-morrow — or  sure 
day  after  to-morrow.  I'm  going  to  look  around 
the  camp  and  see  if  everything  is  all  right,  and 
then  I'll  hike  into  Leeds  and  go  down  by  the  train. 


TOM  AND  ROSCOE  CHUMS         75- 

If  I  was  to  go  limping  back,  they  might  think 
things;  and,  anyway,  it's  better  for  you  to  get 
there  alone." 

"Are  you  sure  your  foot'll  be  all  right?"  Ros- 
coe  asked. 

"Sure.  I'll  read  that  book  of  yours,  and  maybe 
I'll  catch  some  trout  for  lunch    .    .    ." 

Roscoe  sprang  forward  impulsively  and  grasped 
Tom's  hand. 

"Now  you  spilled  my  coffee,"  said  Tom  impas- 
sively. 

"Tom,  I  don't  know  how  to  take  you,"  Roscoe 
said  feelingly;  "you're  a  puzzle  to  me.  I  never 
realized  what  sort  of  a  chap  you  were — when  I 
used  to  make  fun  of  you  and  jolly  you.  Let's  feel 
your  old  muscle,"  he  added,  on  the  impulse.  "I 
wish  /  had  a  muscle  like  that.    ..." 

"Tie  a  double  cord  around  it,  and  I'll  break  the 
cord,"  said  Tom  simply. 

"I  bet  you  can,"  said  Roscoe  proudly,  "and — 
you  saved  me  from  ...  I  don't  know  what 
you  did  it  for.    ..." 

"I  got  no  objections  to  telling  you,"  said  Tom. 
"It's  because  I  liked  you.  There  might  have  been 
other  reasons,  but  that's*  the  main  one.     If  I  only 


76    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

knew  how  to  act  and  talk — especially  to  girls—- 
and  kind  of  make  them  laugh  and " 

"Don't  talk  that  way,"  said  Roscoe,  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  bunk  and  speaking  with  great  ear- 
nestness. "You  make  me  feel  like  a — like  a  crim- 
inal. Me!  What  am  I?  You  tell  Margaret 
Ellison  about  how  you  can  break  a  cord  around 
your  arm — and  see  what  she'll  say.  That's  the 
kind  of  things  they  like  to  know  about  you.  You 
don't  know  much  about  them " 

"I  never  claimed  I  did,"  said  Tom. 

"Here,  I'm  going  to  try  you — call  your  bluff," 
said  Roscoe,  with  a  sudden  return  to  that  gay 
impulsiveness  which  was  so  natural  to  him. 
"Here's  the  cord  from  the  salmon  cans " 

"You  should  never  bring  salmon  in  big  cans," 
said  Tom,  unmoved.  "  'Cause  it  don't  keep  long 
after  you  open  it.  You  should  have  small  cans 
of  everything." 

"Yes,  kind  sir,"  said  Roscoe;  "don't  try  to 
change  the  subject.  Here,  I'm  going  to  try  you 
out — one,  two,  three." 

"You  can  put  it  around  four  times,  if  you 
want,"  said  Tom.  "Do  you  know  how  to  tie  a 
brig  knot?' 


TOM  AND  ROSCOE  CHUMS         77 

"Me?  I  don't  know  anything — except  how  to 
be  a  fool.    There!" 

Tom  slowly  bent  his  bared  arm  as  the  resistant 
cord  cut  the  flesh;  for  a  second  it  strained,  seem- 
ing to  have  withstood  the  full  expanse  of  his  mus- 
cle. Then  he  closed  his  arm  a  little  more,  and 
the  four  strands  of  cord  snapped. 

"Christopher!"  said  Roscoe.  He  towselled 
Tom's  rebellious  shock  of  hair.  "Wouldn't  it  be 
good  if  we  could  go  together — to  the  war,  I 
mean!" 

"If  it  keeps  up  another  year,  I'll  be  eighteen," 
said  Tom.  "Maybe  I'll  meet  you  there — you 
can't  tell." 

"In  that  little  old  French  town  called Do 

you  know  the  most  famous  town  in  France?"  Ros- 
coe broke  oft. 

Tom  shook  his  head. 

"Give  it  up?  Somewhere — the  little  old  berg 
of  Somewhere  in  France.  Wee,  wee,  messeur — 
polly  vuo  Fransayf" 

Tom  laughed.  "There's  one  thing  I  wish  you'd 
do,"  he  said.  "When  I  go  through  Leeds  on  the 
way  home,  I'll  stop  in  the  postoffice  and  you  can 
send  me  a  note  to  say  you  registered  and  every- 


78     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

thing's  all  right.  Then  I'll  enjoy  the  ride  in  the 
train  better." 

"You  think  I  won't  register?"  said  Rocsoe,  be- 
coming suddenly  sober.  "You  couldn't  stop  me 
now." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Tom;  "it  ain't  that.  But  I'd 
just  like  you  to  write — will  you?" 

"I  sure  will — if  I'm  not  in  jail,"  he  added  rue- 
fully. "But  I  don't  like  to  go  and  leave  you 
here." 

"It's  the  best  way,  can't  you  see  that?"  said 
Torn.  "I  won't  be  in  bad  with  them  any  more 
after  a  couple  of  days  than  I  am  now.  And  then 
my  foot'll  be  better.  You  got  to  be  careful  not 
to  mention  my  name.  It's  none  of  my  business 
what  you  tell  'em  about  not  being  there  yesterday. 
I  ain't  advising  anybody  to  lie.  I  could  get  into 
the  army  if  I  wanted  to  lie;  but  I  promised  our 
scoutmaster. — Just  the  same,  it's  none  of  my  busi- 
ness, as  long  as  you  register." 

"If  I  broke  my  word  with  you,"  said  Roscoe 
soberly,  "I'd  be  a  low-down " 

"You  only  got  about  an  hour  and  a  half  to 
catch  the  train,"  said  Tom. 

He  couldn't  think  of  much  else  while  Roscoe 
was  there. 


CHAPTER    XI 

TOM   MEETS    A   STRANGER 

Tom's  ankle  still  pained  him  more  than  he  had 
been  willing  to  admit,  but  the  departure  of  Roscoe 
for  home  was  a  load  off  his  mind,  and  he  felt  that 
now  his  work  was  done.  In  four  hours,  at  most, 
Roscoe  would  be  back  in  Bridgeboro,  his  name 
upon  the  rolls,  his  registration  card  in  his  pocket. 
Tom  envied  him. 

It  was  exactly  like  Tom  not  to  worry  about  how 
the  authorities  would  receive  Roscoe's  excuses, 
or  what  people  would  think  of  his  own  absence. 
His  mind  was  a  very  simple  one,  and  he  believed, 
as  he  had  told  Roscoe,  that  if  one  did  what  was 
right  he  would  not  be  misjudged. 

When  the  effects  of  Roscoe's  "mistake"  had 
blown  over  and  his  own  lameness  subsided,  he 
would  go  back  to  Bridgeboro,  and  he  knew  ex- 
actly what  he  was  going  to  say.  He  was  going  to 
say  that  he  had  been  called  away  unexpectedly 
about  something  very  important.  That  was  what 
business  men  like  Mr.  Temple  and  Mr.  Burton 
and  Mr.  Ellsworth  were  always  saying — that  they 

79 


80    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

were  called  away;  and  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  Tom 
intended  to  use  that  very  expression.  There 
might  be  some  curiosity  and  annoyance,  but  a 
scout  who  held  the  Gold  Cross  (or  at  least  owned 
it)  would  not  be  suspected  of  doing  anything 
wrong.  They  would  say,  "He's  an  odd  number, 
Tom  is,"  and  he  would  not  mind  their  saying  that, 
for  he  had  heard  it  before. 

During  the  morning  he  sat  propped  up  in  the 
bunk  reading  Treasure  Island,  and  in  the  after-, 
noon  he  limped  out  to  the  brook  and  caught  some 
minnows,  which  he  fried  in  cracker  crumbs,  and 
had  a  gala  repast  all  by  himself. 

While  it  was  still  light  he  decided  that  he  would 
follow  the  familiar  trail  down  to  Temple  Camp 
and  spend  the  night  there.  He  had  the  key  to  the 
main  pavilion,  and  there  he  could  enjoy  the  com- 
fort of  a  couch  and  a  much-needed  night's  rest. 
He  had  left  some  clothing  there,  also,  which  he 
meant  to  exchange  for  his  tattered  raiment. 

He  found  the  camp  gloomy  enough  with  all  the 
cabins  closed  and  barred,  the  rowboats  lying  in- 
verted on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  and  not  a  soul  to 
welcome  him  in  that  beloved  retreat  which  had 
been  the  scene  of  so  much  fun  and  adventure.  It 
made  him  think  of  Roy  and  the  troop  to  limp 


TOM  MEETS  A  STRANGER  81 

about  and  see  the  familiar  places,  and  he  sat  down 
on  the  long  rough  seat  at  the  bleak-looking  mess- 
board  and  thought  of  the  past  summer,  of  Jeb 
Rushmore,  of  Pee-wee's  curly  hair  and  lively  coun- 
tenance, of  the  scouts  trooping  from  woods  and 
cabin  to  the  grateful  evening  meal  which  was 
served  there  each  night. 

Soon,  in  a  week  or  two  perhaps,  Jeb  would  re- 
turn, and  before  long  that  quiet  grove  would  echo 
to  the  sound  of  merry  voices.  He  sat  gazing  in 
the  twilight  at  the  long,  deserted  mess-board. 
How  well  he  remembered  the  night  when  all  the 
camp  had  assembled  here  in  honor  of  the  birthday 
of  the  Elk  Patrol — his  patrol ! 

"If  it  wasn't  for  me,  this  camp  would  never 
have  been  started,"  he  mused  proudly;  "Mr. 
Temple  saw  what  scouting  could  do  for  a  feller, 
and  that's  why  he  started  it.  .  .  .  I'm  mighty 
glad  I  got  to  be  a  scout    .    .    " 

It  made  him  homesick  to  look  about;  homesick 
for  the  good  old  times,  for  Jeb,  and  the  stalking 
and  tracking  and  swimming,  and  Roy's  jollying  of 
Pee-wee  at  camp-fire,  and  the  hikes  he  and  Roy 
used  to  have  together. 

"Anyway,  I'll  see  them  all  to-morrow  night  at 
troop  meeting,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  in  Au- 


82     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

gust  we'll  all  be  up  here  again. — I  bet  they'll 
laugh  and  say  I  was  a  queer  duck  to  go  away — 
that's  what  Roy's  always  saying." 

He  found  some  ointment  in  the  provision  cabin 
and  rubbed  his  ankle  until  his  arm  was  tired. 
Then  he  bandaged  it  and  went  to  bed  in  one  of 
the  comfortable  cot-beds  in  the  pavilion. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  was  up  and  glad  to 
find  that  he  could  stand  upon  his  injured  foot 
without  pain. 

The  sun  was  streaming  in  through  the  window 
which  he  had  thrown  open,  and  its  cheerful  bright- 
ness drove  away  any  lingering  misgivings  which 
he  might  have  had  about  Roscoe's  or  his  own  re- 
ception in  Bridgeboro.  He  donned  an  old  suit  of 
his  own  which,  though  faded,  was  free  from  tears. 

"It's  all  right  now;  everything's  all  right  now," 
he  said;  "he's  registered  by  now,  and  to-morrow 
night  I'll  show  up  at  troop  meeting  and  they  can 
kid  me  and  say  I  was  afraid  to  stay  and  go  on  the 
platform — I  don't  care.  I  know  I  hit  the  right 
trail.    Let  'em  call  me  queer  if  they  want  to." 

He  made  breakfast  for  himself  with  a  pocket- 
ful of  loose  coffee  which  he  had  brought  down 
from  the  mountain  and  some  canned  meat  which 
he  found  in  the  provision  cabin. 


TOM  MEETS  A  STRANGER  83 

Then  he  hit  up  through  the  grove  for  the  road 
which  would  take  him  into  the  village  of  Leeds, 
where  he  could  catch  the  trolley  line  for  Catskill 
Landing. 

"That  was  a  good  job,  anyway,"  he  said  to 
himself,  as  he  limped  steadily  along;  "I  bet  Mr. 

Bent  was  glad Gee,  it  must  be  fine  to  have 

a  father  like  that!    ..." 

The  birds  were  chattering  in  the  *rees  along 
the  roadside;  hard  by  a  little  herd  of  lazy  cows 
stood  in  a  swamp  under  a  spreading  willow  like 
statues  of  content;  now  and  again  an  agile  chip- 
munk ran  along  the  stone  wall  and  disappeared 
into  one  of  its  little  rocky  caverns;  in  the  fields 
beyond  farm  hands  with  great  straw  hats  could 
be  seen  at  their  labors,  reminding  poor  Tom  of 
his  own  sorry  bungling  as  a  war  farmer;  and  the 
whole  tranquil  scene  was  filled  with  the  breath  of 
spring,  which  entered  the  soul  of  Tom  Slade  as 
he  limped  steadily  along,  and  made  him  feel 
happy  and  satisfied. 

"Anyway,  this  is  just  as  good — just  as  good  as 
being  on  a  committee,"  he  told  himself;  "I  always 
liked  the  country  best  of  all,  anyway — I  always 
said  I  did.  The  scout  trail  takes  you  to  good 
places — that's  one  sure  thing." 


84     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

Presently  he  passed  a  bend  in  the  road  and  dis- 
covered some  distance  ahead  of  him  a  figure — evi- 
dently that  of  a  youth — trudging  along  under  the 
weight  of  a  tremendous  old-fashoined  valise  which 
he  carried  now  in  one  hand,  now  in  the  other,  and 
now  again  on  his  shoulder. 

In  the  intervals  of  changing  he  laid  the  valise 
on  the  ground,  pausing  in  evident  relief.  At 
length,  he  sat  down  on  a  rock,  and  as  Tom  ap- 
proached he  screwed  up  his  face  in  a  rueful  grin. 
It  was  an  extraordinary  face  and  such  a  grin  as 
Tom  had  never  seen  before — a  grin  which  made 
even  the  scout  smile  look  like  drooping  despair  by 
comparison.  And  as  for  freckles,  there  were  as 
many  of  them  as  there  are  stars  in  the  peaceful 
heaven. 

"Too  much  for  you?"  asked  Tom,  as  he  paused 
by  the  rock. 

The  boy  made  no  answer,  but  shook  his  head 
expressively  and  mopped  his  forehead. 

"I'll  help  you  carry  it,"  said  Tom.  "We  can 
both  get  hold  of  the  handle.  I  got  to  do  a  good 
turn,  anyway." 

"Sit  down  and  rest,"  said  the  stranger.  "I  got 
some  apples  inside,  and  we'll  dig  into  a  couple  of 
'em.     Like  apples?" 


CHAPTER    XII 

TOM    HEARS    OF   THE    BLOND    BEAST 

The  young  fellow  was  of  about  Tom's  own 
age,  and  the  most  conspicuous  thing  about  him, 
aside  from  his  smile  and  his  freckles,  was  the  col- 
lection of  badge-buttons  which  decorated  the 
lapels  of  his  coat  and  the  front  of  his  hat.  They 
almost  rivalled  his  freckles  in  number.  Some  of 
them  were  familiar  enough  to  Tom,  showing  flags 
and  patriotic  phrases,  but  others  puzzled  him, 
one  or  two  bearing  words  which  were  evidently 
French.  There  was  an  English  Win  the  War 
Loan  button,  and  a  Red  Cross  button  which  read 
/  have  given  two  shillings. 

"Here,  I'll  show  you  something  else,"  said  the 
stranger,  noticing  Tom's  interest  in  the  buttons. 
He  opened  his  bag  and  took  out  a  couple  of 
apples,  giving  one  to  Tom.  "You  see  that,"  he 
observed,  holding  up  a  small  crumpled  piece  of 
brass.     "Know  where  I  got  that?"    He  rolled  his 

85 


86    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

R's  very  noticeably  in  the  manner  peculiar  to  the 
country  people  of  New  York  State. 

"What  is  it?"  Tom  asked. 

"It's  the  cover  of  an  ink-stand.  You  know 
what  made  it  like  that?  A  Zeppelin!  That  was 
in  a  raid,  that  was.  It  came  flying  plunk  out 
through  the  front  window — and  it  stuck  right  into 
a  tree  like  a  dagger.  It  might  have  stuck  in  my 
head,  only  it  didn't.  I'm  lucky — that's  what  our 
gun  crew  says."  He  breathed  on  the  crumpled 
souvenir  and  rubbed  it  on  his  trousers  to  polish 
it.  "See,  it's  got  a  kind  of — initials,  like — on  it! 
Everybody  has  their  initials  on  things  in  Eng- 
land." 

Tom  took  the  little'  twisted  ornamental  cover 
in  his  hand  and  gazed  at  it,  fascinated. 

"See?  M.  E.  M.,"  continued  the  stranger. 
"That  was  near  Whitehall,  it  was;  a  little  girl 
was  sitting  at  a  table  writing  her  lessons ;  she  was 
just  in  the  middle  of  a  word — that's  what  I  heard 
people  in  the  crowd  say — when,  kerflunk!  down 
comes  the  bomb  through  the  roof  and  goes  right 
through  the  floor  of  the  top  room  and  hits  right 
on  the  table  !     Go-o-d-night  for  that  little  girl !" 

"Kill  her?"  Tom  asked. 

"Blew  her  all  to  pieces,"  said  his  companion,  as 


TOM  HEARS  OF  THE  BLOND  BEAST  87 

he  took  the  poor  little  trinket  and  continued  to 
polish  it  on  his  knee. 

Of  all  that  Tom  Slade  had  read  about  the  war, 
its  grim  cruelties,  its  thousands  slain  and  maimed, 
its'  victims  struggling  frantically  in  the  rough 
ocean,  the  poor  starving  wretches  in  Belgium, 
nothing  had  impressed  him  so  deeply  nor  seemed 
to  bring  the  war  so-  close  to  him  as  this  little 
crumpled  piece  of  brass — the  sad  memorial  of  a 
little  girl  who-  had  been  blown  into  eternity  while 
she  was  studying  her  lessons.  A  lump  came  up  in 
his  throat,  and  he  stood  watching  his  companion, 
and  saying  nothing. 

"That  was  the  blond  beast,  that  was,"  said  the 
stranger.  "I  saw  him  stickin'  his  old  head  out  of 
the  ocean,  too;  and  we  got  a  pop  at  him  last  trip. 
Here,  I'll  show  you  something  else." 

Out  of  the  bag  he  drew  a'photograph.  "There, 
that's  our  gun  crew;  that's  Tommy  Walters — he's 
the  one  says  I'm  a  mascot.  I'm  taking  him  some 
apples  now.  That  feller  there  is  Hobart.  And 
that's  old  Billy  Sunday  himself,  right  in  the  mid- 
dle," he  added,  pointing  to  a  long,  horizontal  ob- 
ject concealed  by  a  canvas  cover;  "that's  him,  the 
bully  old  boy!" 

"A  gun,  is  it?" 


83     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"You'd  say  so  if  you  heard  it  pop  and  saw  it 
jump — that's,  how  it  got  its  name." 

In  the  photograph  three'  young  men  in  khaki, 
one  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  were  leaning 
against  a  steamer's  rail. 

"Are  they  Americans?"  Tom  asked,  for  he  was 
puzzled  about  his  new  friend's  nationality. 

"You  said  it." 

One  of  the  gun  crew  was  smiling  straight  at 
Tom  so  that  he  almost  smiled  back,  and  the  lump 
came  up  higher  in  his  throat  and  his  eyes  glis- 
tened. 

"Do  you  live  around  here?"  he  asked.  "I'd 
like  to  know  what  your  name  is  and  what — and 
how  you "  he  broke  off. 

"You  see  that  house  over  the  hill?  I  live  there. 
And  I'm  going  back  on  the  job  now.  What  d'ye 
say  we  move  along?" 

They  lifted  the  valise  and  started  along  the 
road. 

"This  is  the  last  day  of  my  leave,"  said  the 
youth.  "Here,  see?"  And  he  exhibited  a  steam- 
ship card  with  the  name  of  a  steamer  upon  it  and 
the  name  of  Archibald  Archer  written  in  the  blank 
space  underneath. 

"That's  my  ship,  and  I  go  aboard  her  to-day, 


TOM  HEARS  OF  THE  BLOND  BEAST  89 

thank  goodness !  This'll  be  my  third  trip  across, 
and  the  second  time  I've  been  home.  This  bag  is 
half  full  of  apples.  Tommy  Walters  is  crazy 
about  'em.  The  last  trip,  when  I  was  home,  I 
took  him  some  russets.  He  wouldn't  let  me  pop 
the  gun,  but  he  said  if  the  dirty  beast  came  near 
enough  I  could  let  him  have  the  core  of  an  apple 
plunk  in  his  old  periscope.  If  you  were  there, 
we'd  sit  on  the  main  hatch  eatin'  apples  and 
watchin'  for  periscopes.  I  don't  have  much  to  do 
after  I  get  my  berths  made  up." 

"Do  you  work  on  the  ship?"  Tom  asked. 

"You  bet!  I'm  one  of  the  steward's  boys. 
Gee,  if  you  had  to  make  fifty-seven  beds  with  a 
life  preserver  on,  you'd  know  what  it  is  to  be 
tired !  Carrying  this  old  suitcase  is  a  cinch  com- 
pared to  that! — Say,  if  there's  a  Zep  raid  in  Lon- 
don while  I'm  there  I'll  get  you  a  souvenir.  But 
the  trouble  is  they  never  come  when  you  want  'em 
to.    Do  you  live  in  Leeds?" 

"I  live  in  Bridgeboro,  New  Jersey,"  said  Tom, 
"and  my  name  is  Slade.  I'd  tell  you  to  call  me 
Tom,  only  I  won't  know  you  more  than  half  an 
hour  or  so,  so  what's  the  use?" 

"Half   an   hour's   better   than   nothing,"   said 


9o    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

Archibald    Archer.      "Are    you    on    your    way 
home?" 

"I  just  came  from  the  camp,"  said  Tom,  side- 
stepping the  real  object  of  his  trip.  "You  know 
Temple  Camp,  don't  you?  I  work  for  Temple 
Camp." 

He  was  glad  that  his  companion  did  not  pursue 
his  inquiries. 

"That's  where  all  the  scouts  come  in  the  sum- 
mer, isn't  it?"  he  queried. 

"I'm  all  alone,"  said  Tom.  "You're  lucky  to 
have  a  home  up  in  the  country  to  come  to.  And 
you're  lucky  to  have  a  job  like  that  too." 

"I  told  you  I  was  lucky,"  said  Archibald 
Archer. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  little  while, 
carrying  the  bag  between  them. 

"You've  seen  something  of  the  war,  all  right," 
commented  Tom,  "and  I'll  bet  you're  not  eighteen 
yet.  You  sure  are  lucky !  I  don't  blame  you  for 
calling  Germany  the  blond  beast.  I  wish  /  could 
be  in  it  like  you." 

"Why  don't  you  enlist?" 

"I  promised  I  wouldn't — not  till  I'm  eighteen. 
I  got  to  talk  to  my  scoutmaster  about  it,  'cause  I 
said  I  would.    I  wouldn't  lie  about  how  old  I  am, 


TOM  HEARS  OF  THE  BLOND  BEAST  91 

because  he  says  if  a  feller  lies  about  one  thing 
he'll  lie  about  another.  ...  I  wonder  if  you'd 
call  it  being  with  the  Colors,  working  like  you 
do?"  he  added. 

"If  you  saw  Old  Glory  flying  from  the  stern 
and  did  your  work  with  a  life  preserver  wrapped 
around  you  and  spent  most  of  your  time  piking 
for  subs  and  practicing  emergency  drills,  just  to 
let  old  Blondy  know  he  can't  stop  us  from  coming 
across — you'd  say  you  were  with  the  Colors!  If 
you  stood  where  I  did  and  saw  that  little  old 
periscope  topple  over  like  a  ninepin  and  heard 
Tommy  say,  'Go  get  me  another  apple,  Archie — 
we'll  hit  'em  again  for  good  luck!' — you'd  say  you 
were  with  the  Colors,  all  right !  You  might  be  in 
the  third-line  trenches  a  whole  year  an'  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  yourself  but  carry  buckets  and  dig 
in  the  dirt.     /  know." 

Tom  was  fascinated. 

"All  you  got  to  do  is  say  the  word,"  his  com- 
panion went  on,  reading  his  thoughts.  "The 
steward'll  put  you  on.  They  only  sign  you  up  for 
one  trip  at  a  time.  If  you're  over  sixteen,  it's  all 
right.  They're  taking  up  the  shore  passes  to-day. 
Nobody  knows  when  we'll  sail,  or  even  where 
we're  going — except  the  captain.     If  I  say  I  know 


92     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

you,  it'll  be  all  right.  You  get  a  hundred  and 
sixty  dollars  for  the  trip,  and  you'll  have  about 
two  weeks  shore  leave  on  the  other  side.  The 
principal  thing  they'll  tell  you  is  about  keepin' 
your  mouth  shut.    Are  you  good  at  that?" 

"There's  nobody  can  get  anything  out  of  me  if 
I  don't  want  to  tell,"  said  Tom  doggedly;  "and  I 
think  you  are  with  the  Colors.  /  call  it  being  in 
the  war,  and  it's  what  I'd  like  to  do,  that's  one 
sure  thing!" 

"I  could  tell  you  a  lot  of  things,"  said  Archer, 
"only  I'm  not  supposed  to  tell  'em  to  anybody." 

"I  got  to  go  home,"  said  Tom;  "I'm  glad  I  met 
you,  though.  We  can  go  in  on  the  train  together, 
can't  we  ?  I  have  to  go  to  New  York  to  get  home. 
I  got  to  go  to  scout  meeting  to-night.  I'm  going 
to  stop  in  the  postoffice  when  we  get  to  Leeds; 
then  we'll  go  down  to  Catskill  Landing  together, 
hey?  I'm  glad  I  had  company,  'cause  I  was  feel- 
ing kind  of  lonely  and  queer,  like.  When  you  talk 
it  makes  me  feel  as  if  I'd  like  to  do  that,  only  I 
see  I  can't." 

Archibald  Archer  gave  a  curious  look  at  Tom 
as  they  plodded  along. 

"What  you  tell  me  about  that  little  girl  makes 
me  want  to  get  into  it  all  the  more,"  Tom  said. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

AS    OTHERS    SAW    HIM 

In  Leeds  Tom  left  his  companion  sitting  on  a 
carriage  step  in  the  main  street  while  he  went  over 
to  the  postoffice.  As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  young 
Archer's  presence  the  tempter  who  had  been  pull- 
ing at  his  elbow  left  him,  and  his  thoughts  flew 
back  to  Roscoe  and  home. 

He  asked  if  there  was  a  letter  for  him,  and 
eagerly  took  the  envelope  which  the  clerk  handed 
out.  It  was  addressed  in  an  unfamiliar,  neat  bank 
hand.  Anxiously  he  stepped  over  to  the  better 
light  near  the  window  and  read: 

"Dear  Tom: 

"Here  I  am,  and  it's  twenty-three  for 
mine."  (Tom  paused  in  suspense  at  this  om- 
inous phrase.)  "My  registration  card  is 
numbered  twenty-three,  so  I'm  the  only  orig- 
inal skiddoo  soldier — take  it  from  your 
Uncle  Dudley. 

"When  I  toddled  up  to  Doc  Fuller  and 
told  him  that  I  was  out  of  town  Wednesday 
and  just  couldn't  get  back,  you  ought  to  have 
93 


94    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

seen  the  look  he  gave  me — over  the  top  of 
those  spectacles  of  his.  I  just  stood  there  as 
if  I  was  on  the  firing-line  facing  German 
clam-shells,  and  never  flinched.  I  wouldn't 
mind  a  few  Krupp  guns  now — not  after  that 
look. 

"But  Doc's  a  pretty  good  skate — I'll  say 
that  for  him.  He  was  better  than  the  other 
members  of  the  Board,  anyway. 

"Well,  I  got  away  with  it,  all  right,  only 
it's  good  another  day  didn't  slip  by,  for  then 
my  name  would  have  gone  in  and — g-o-o-d- 
ni-ight ! 

"Tommy,  you're  one  brick !  When  I  think 
of  that  old  towhead  of  yours  and  that  scowl 
and  that  old  mug,  I  know  we'll  win  the  war. 
You'd  walk  right  through  that  Hindenburg 
line  if  you  ever  got  started. 

"I've  got  to  hand  it  to  you,  Tom — you 
brought  me  to  my  senses,  all  right,  and  I 
won't  forget  it  in  a  hurry. 

"But,  Tommy  boy,  you're  in  Dutch  down 
here — I  might  as  well  tell  you  the  truth. 
And  it  makes  me  feel  like  a  criminal.  Old 
Man  Temple  has  got  the  knife  in  you. 
Greatly  disappointed  in  him — that's  what  he 
told  Ellsworth  and  Pop  Burton.  Can't  you 
see  the  old  man  frowning? 


AS  OTHERS  SAW  HIM  95 

"I  went  in  to  put  some  mail  on  his  desk 
and  the  whole  three  of  them  were  in  there 
pounding  away  with  their  little  hammers. 
The  old  man  was  as  nice  as  pie  to  me — pat- 
ted me  on  the  shoulder  and  gave  me  the  glad 
hand.  Said  I  was  Uncle  Sam's  boy  now. 
They  didn't  even  know  I  wasn't  registered 
Wednesday." 

Tom  was  glad  of  that.  He  had  succeeded  bet- 
ter than  he  had  dreamed.  His  awe  of  Roscoe 
Bent  had  not  entirely  vanished,  and  he  was  proud 
to  receive  so  familiar  a  letter  from  him.  He  was 
so  generously  pleased  that  for  the  moment  he  did 
not  think  of  much  else.    Then  he  read  on : 

"Ellsworth  said  he'd  been  afraid  you 
would  do  just  what  you  had  done — run  off 
and  join  the  army.  He  said  you  promised 
him  you  wouldn't,  but  he  guessed  you 
couldn't  stand  the  strain  when  you  saw  the 
fellows  lining  up  to  register. 

"A  couple  of  Boy  Scouts  told  Ellsworth 
they  saw  you  coming  out  of  a  pawnshop,  and 
they  were  chewing  that  over  in  the  old  gent's 
office.  But  I  guess  those  kids  were  dream- 
ing, hey? 

"The  old  gent  said  he  guessed  you  were 


96    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

afraid  to  go  up  on  the  platform  at  the  rally 
but  didn't  like  to  tell  him  so.  Tom,  I  never 
knew  you  were  scheduled  for  that — why 
didn't  you  tell  me?  You're  aces  up — you're 
one  bully  old  trump.  I  never  even  knew  you 
till  now.  You're  a  brick,  you  stubborn,  tow- 
headed  old  forest  fighter !  You're  fourteen- 
karat  and  you  don't  even  know  it  yourself — 
you're  so  blamed  stupid!" 

Tom  gulped  slightly  as  he  read  this  and  his  eyes 
glistened,  but  he  read  on  with  a  kind  of  stolid 
indifference: 

"I  was  going  to  tell  them  the  whole  thing, 
Tom,  but  I  guess  I  was  too  mean  and  too 
much  of  a  coward.  Anyway,  I  promised  you 
I  wouldn't.  I  hope  your  ankle  is  better,  and 
if  you  can't  get  home,  let  me  know  and  I'll 
come  up  after  you. 

"In  a  harry, 

"Rossie." 

"P.S.  When  Pop  Burton  told  Margaret 
E.  that  you  had  run  off  to  join  the  army,  she 
said  that  was  splendid.  He  told  her  you'd 
have  to  lie  about  your  age,  and  she  said  that 


AS  OTHERS  SAW  HIM  97 

was  glorious.  Can  you  beat  that?  Old  Man 
Temple  went  to  Chicago  to-night,  thank 
goodness,  to  buy  some  railroads  and  things. 
So  long — see  you  soon," 

Tom  was  glad,  he  was  even  pro.ud,  that  the 
letter  was  signed  by  the  familiar  nickname,  and 
he  was  glad  of  the  friendly  "So  long." 

Before  he  allowed  himself  to  think  of  any- 
thing else  he  read  the  letter  over  again,  lingering 
upon  the  familiar  and  humorous  phrases  which 
seemed  to  constitute  himself  and  Roscoe  as  close 
friends.  The  part  pertaining  to  himself  he  read 
in  a  half  daze.  It  seemed  to  knock  the  bottom 
out  of  his  whole  theory  that  he  who  does  right  is 
always  safe.  Tom's  mind,  in  some  ways,  was 
very,  very  simple,  and  now  that  he  read  the  letter 
in  relation  to  himself  it  was  a  knockout  blow. 

For  a  few  minutes  he  stood  gazing  out  of  the 
postoffice  window,  watching  two  men  who  were 
taking  down  the  registration-day  decorations  from 
the  hotel  opposite.  A  soldier  in  khaki  went  by 
and  stopped  to  chat  with  them.  A  farmer  came  in 
for  his  mail,  and  Tom  heard  his  voice  as  in  a 
dream. 

Then  suddenly  he  shook  off  his  abstraction  and 
walked  back  to  the  little  grated  window. 


98     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"I  want  to  get  a  stamped  envelope,"  he  said. 
At  the  writing  shelf  he  tore  a  sheet  out  of  his 
scout  blank  book  and  wrote : 

"Dear  Roscoe  : 

"I  got  your  letter  and  I'm  glad  you  got 
registered  and  that  nobody  knows.  If  you 
had  told,  it  would  have  spoiled  it  all. 

"I  see  I  did  get  misjudged,  and  if  they 
want  to  think  that  I  tell  lies  and  break  prom- 
ises, let  them  think  so.  As  long  as  they  think 
that,  anyway,  I've  decided  I  will  go  and  help 
the  government  in  a  way  I  can  do  without 
breaking  my  word  to  anybody. 

"You  can  see,  yourself,  I'm  not  one  of  the 
kind  that  tells  lies.. 

"I've  got  my  mind  made  up  now;  I  made 
it  up  all  of  a  sudden  like,  as  long  as  that's 
what  they  think.  So  I'm  not  coming  back  to 
Bridgeboro.  I'm  going  away  somewhere 
else.  The  thing  I  care  most  about  is  that  you 
got  registered.  And  next  to  that  I'm  glad 
because  it  helped  us  to  get  to  be  friends,  be- 
cause I  like  you  and  I  always  did,  even  when 
you  made  fun  of  me. 

"Your  friend, 

"Tom." 


AS  OTHERS  SAW  HIM  99 

He  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  thinking  it 
would  be  better  to  mail  it  from  New  York.  Then 
he  went  out  and  over  to  where  young  Archer  was 
sitting. 

"I've  decided  I'll  go  if  you  can  get  me  a  job," 
he  said,  "and  if  you're-  sure  I  don't  have  to  tell 
them  I'm  eighteen.  Maybe  you  wouldn't  call  it 
being  in  the  war  exactly,  but " 

"Sure  you  would,"  Archdr  interrupted,  with 
great  alacrity.  "I'll  tell  you  something  I  didn't 
tell  you  before,  but  you  have  to  keep  your  mouth 
shut.  We're  going  to  be  a  transport  pretty  soon 
— as  soon  as  the  boys  begin  coming  out  of  the 
camps.  We'll  be  taking  them  over  by  the  thou- 
sands around  next  November — you  see!" 

"Do  you- think  they'll  take  me?"  Tom  asked. 

"They'll  grab  you — you*  see!" 

Tcf  be  sure,  this  assurance  of  a  job  was  not  on 
very  high  authority,  but  it  was  quite  like  Tom  to 
place  implicit  confidence  in  what  this  engaging 
young  stranger  told  him.  His  faith  in  people  was 
unbounded. 

He  sat  down  on  the  carriage  step  beside 
Archer  a9  if  there  were  nothing  extreme  or  un- 
usual in  his  momentous  decision,  and  with  his 
usual   air  of  i-ndifference  waited  for  the  trolley 


ioo     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

car  which  would  take  them  to  the  station  at  Cats* 
kill  Landing. 

"What  d'you  say  we  hit  up  a  couple  more 
apples?"  said  Archer. 

"Will  you  have  plenty  left  for  Tommy  Wal- 
ters?" said  Tom. 

"Sure !  I  got  enough  to  last  him  right  through 
the  danger  zone." 

"Through  the  danger  zone,"  Tom  mused. 

For  a  few  minutes  they  sat  munching  their 
apples  in  silence. 

"There's  two  reasons,"  said  Tom  abruptly. 
"One  is  because  I  just  got  a  letter  that  shows 
people  think  I'm  a  liar  and  break  promises.  The 
other  is  on  account  of  what  you  told  me  about 
that  little  girl.  If  we  take  food  and  things  over 
now  and  take  soldiers  over  later,  I  guess  that's 
helping,  all  right.  Anyway,  it's  better  than  mak- 
ing badges.  In  another  year  I'll  be  eighteen,  and 
then " 

"Here  comes  the  car,"  said  Archibald  Archer. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

TOM    GETS    A   JOB 

The  momentous  step  which  Tom  had  resolved 
to  take  did  not  appear  to  agitate  his  stolid  nature 
in  the  least.  Nor  did  he  give  any  sign  of  feeling 
disappointment  or  resentment.  His  whole  simple 
faith  was  in  young  Archer  now,  and  he  trusted 
him  implicitly. 

He  sat  in  the  train,  sometimes  looking  straight 
ahead  and  sometimes  out  at  the  beautiful  Hudson 
where  he  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours  in  the 
troop's  cabin  launch,  the  Good  Turn. 

After  a  while  he  said  abruptly,  "If  a  feller 
does  what's  right  and  does  a  good  turn  and  he 
gets  misjudged,  then  after  that  he's  got  a  right 
to  do  as  he  pleases." 

His  companion  did  not  offer  any  comment  upon 
this,  but  looked  at  Tom  rather  curiously. 

After  about  ten  minutes  of  silence,  Tom  ob- 
served: "I  like  mysteries;  I'm  glad  we  don't 
know  where  we're  going.  It  makes  it  like  a  book, 
kind  of.     I  hope  the  captain  won't  tell  me." 

101 


102     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"You  can  trust  him  for  that,"  said  Archer; 
"don't  worry!" 

If  mystery  was  what  Tom  craved,  he  soon  had 
enough  to  satisfy  him.  Indeed,  no  author  of i 
twenty-five-cent  thrillers  could  possibly  produce 
such  an  atmosphere  of  mystery  as  he  found  when 
he  and  young  Archer  reached  the  pier  in  New 
York. 

The  steamship  company,  aided  and  abetted  by 
Uncle  Sam,  had  enshrouded  the  whole  prosy  busi- 
ness of  loading  and  sailing  with  a  delightful  cov- 
ering of  romance,  and  Tom  realized,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  sacred  precincts,  that  the  departure 
of  a  vessel  to-day  is  quite  as  much  fraught  with 
perilous  and  adventurous  possibilities  as  was  the 
sailing  of  a  Spanish  galleon  in  the  good  old  days 
of  yore. 

A  high  board  fence  protected  the  pier  from 
public  gaze,  and  as  Tom  read  the  glaring  recruit- 
ing posters  which  decorated  it  he  felt  that,  even  if 
his  part  in  the  war  fell  short  of  actual  military 
service,  he  was  at  last  about  to  do  something 
worth  while — something  which  would  involve  the 
risk  of  his  life. 

A  little  door  in  the  big  fence  stood  open  and 


TOM  GETS  A  JOB  103 

by  it  sat  a  man  on  a  stool.  Two  other  men  stood 
near  him  and  all  three  eyed  the  boys  shrewdly. 

"This  is  the  first  barbed-wire  entanglement," 
said  Archer,  as  they  approached.  "You  keep  your 
mouth  shut,  but  if  you  have  to  answer  any  ques- 
tions, tell  'em  the  truth.  These  guys  are  spot- 
ters." 

"What?"  said  Tom,  a  little  uneasy. 

"Secret  Service  men-^they  can  tell  if  your 
great-grandfather  was  German." 

"He  wasn't,"  said  Tom. 

"Hello,  you  old  spiff-head!"  said  Archer  to  the 
gate-keeper,  at  the  same  time  laying  down  his 
satchel  with  an  air  of  having  done  the  same  thing 
before.  The  two  Secret  Service  men  opened  it 
and  rummaged  among  its  contents,  one  of  them 
helping  himself  to  an  apple. 

"You  bloomin'  grafter!"  said  Archibald. 

"That's  all  right,  Archie,"  said  the  other  man, 
likewise  helping  himself.  "It's  good  to  see  your 
smiling  phiz  back  again.    Who's  your  friend?" 

"He's  goin'  in  to  see  the  steward,"  said  Archer-. 
"I  told  him  I'd  get  a  feller  for  the  butcher " 

"All  the  passes  are  taken  up,"  said  the  gate- 
man,  as  he  took  Archer's  pass.  "Everybody's  on 
board,  and  there's  nobody  needed." 


io4    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"Oh,  is  that  so?"  said  Archer  derisively.  "Just 
because  everybody's  on  board  it  don't  prove  no- 
body's needed.  I  didn't  say  there  was  any  va- 
cancies." 

"He'll  only  come  back  out  again,"  said  the 
gatekeeper. 

"Oh,  will  he?"  said  Archer  ironically. 

"Let  him  in,"  laughed  one  of  the  Secret  Service 
men,  and  as  he  spoke  he  pulled  Tom's  pockets  in- 
side out  in  a  very  perfunctory  way  and  slapped 
his  clothing  here  and  there.  It  was  evident  that 
young  Archer  was  a  favorite.  As  for  Tom,  he 
felt  very  important. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  lucky?"  Archer  said, 
as  he  and  Tom  together  lugged  the  big  valise 
down  the  pier.  "Spiffy's  a  good  sketch — but 
they're  getting  more  careful  all  the  time.  Next 
sailing,  maybe,  when  we're  taking  troops  over, 
President  Wilson  couldn't  get  by  with  it.  .  .  . 
You  heard  what  he  said  about  all  the  passes  being 
taken?  That  means  all  hands  are  on  board.  It 
don't  mean  we'll  sail  to-day — or  maybe  not  to- 
morrow even.    We'll  sneak  out  at  night,  maybe." 

Tom  had  never  been  in  close  proximity  to  an 
ocean  steamer  even  in  peace  times,  and  the  scene 
which  now  confronted  him  was  full  of  interest. 


TOM  GETS  A  JOB  105 

Along  the  side  of  the  pier  rose  the  great  black 
bulk  of  the  mighty  ship,  beneath  the  shadow  of 
which  people  seemed  like  pygmies  and  the  great 
piles  of  freight  like  houses  of  toy  blocks. 

The  gangways  leading  up  to  the  decks  were 
very  steep  and  up  and  down  them  hurried  men  in 
uniforms.  Near  a  pile  of  heavy,  iron-bound 
wooden  cases  several  soldiers  in  khaki  strolled 
back  and  forth.  Tom  wondered  what  was  in 
those  cases.  Hanging  from  a  mammoth  crane 
was  part  of  the  framework  of  a  great  aeroplane. 
Several  Red  Cross  ambulances  and  a  big  pile  of 
stretchers  stood  near  by,  and  he  peered  into  one 
of  the  ambulances,  fascinated.  Tremendous 
spools,  fifteen  or  more  feet  in  diameter,  wound 
with  barbed  wire,  stood  on  the  pier;  there  were 
fifty  of  them,  as  it  seemed  to  Tom,  and  they  must 
have  carried  miles  of  barbed  wire.  There  were  a 
lot  of  heavy,  canvas-covered  wagons  with  the  let- 
ters U.S.A.  on  them,  and  these  were  packed  with 
poles  and  rolls  of  khaki-colored  canvas,  which 
Tom  thought  might  be  tents.  There  were  auto- 
mobiles bearing  the  same  initials,  and  shovels  by 
the  thousand,  piled  loose,  all  similarly  marked. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Uncle  Sam  was  get- 
ting his  sleeves  rolled  up,  ready  for  business. 


io6    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

At  the  foot  of  one  of  the  gangways  Archer 
had  to  open  his  bag  again  to  gratify  the  curiosity 
of  another  man  who  seemed  to  know  what  he  was 
about  and  who,  upon  Archer's  statement  of  Tom's 
errand,  slapped  Tom  here  and  there  in  the  vicin- 
ity of  his  pockets  and  said,  "All  right,  Tommy," 
which  greatly  increased  Tom's  veneration  for  the 
sagacity  of  Secret  Service  men. 

"He  just  meant  he  knew  you  wasn't  German," 
said  Archer. 

He  led  the  way  along  the  deck,  down  a  com- 
panionway  and  through  a  passage  where  there 
were  names  on  .the  doors,  such  as  Surgeon,  Chief 
Steward,  Chief  Engineer,  First  Mate,  etc.  They 
entered  the  chief  steward's  cabin,  where  a  man  in 
uniform  sat  at  a  desk  with  other  men  standing  all 
about,  apparently  awaiting  orders.  When  his  turn 
came,  Archer  said: 

"Do  you  remember,  Mr.  Cressy,  you  said  you 
wished  you  had  more  youngsters  like  me  in  the 
steward's  department?  I  got  you  one  here.  He's 
a  friend  of  mine.  He's  just  like  me — only  dif- 
ferent." 

"Well,  thank  goodness  for  that,"  said  the  chief 
steward,  sitting  back  and  contemplating  Archi- 
bald with  a  rather  rueful  look.    "Did  I  say  that?" 


TOM  GETS  A  JOB  107 

"Yes,  sir,  you  did.  So  I  brought  him;  Tom 
Slade,  his  name  is,  and  he  wants  a  job.  He'd  like 
to  be  chief  engineer,  but  if  he  can't  be  that " 

"Maybe  he'd  be  willing  to  be  butcher's  assist- 
ant," concluded  the  steward.  "Archer,"  he 
added,  as  he  reached  for  one  of  several  speaking 
tubes  near  his  desk,  "if  I  thought  you'd  sink,  I'd 
have  you  thrown  overboard. — How'd  you  enjoy 
your  visit  home?" 

A  brief  talk  with  some  unseen  person,  to  which 
Tom  listened  with  chill  misgivings,  and  the 
steward  directed  his  young  subordinate  to  take 
Tom  to  the  purser's  office  and,  if  he  got  through 
all  right  there,  to  the  ship's  butcher.  He  gave 
Tom  a  slip  of  paper  to  hand  to  the  purser. 

The  purser's  cabin  was  up  on  the  main  deck, 
and  it  was  the  scene  of  much  going  and  coming, 
and  signing  and  handing  back  and  forth  of  papers. 
A  young  man  sat  on  a  stool  before  a  high  desk 
with  a  huge  open  book  before  him. 

"He's  the  third  purser,"  whispered  Archer; 
"don't  you  be  afraid  of  him." 

It  was  to  the  third  purser  that  Tom  told  the 
history  of  his  life — so  far  as  he  knew  it;  where 
he  was  born  and  when,  who  his  parents  were, 
where  they  had  been  born,  when  and  where  they 


108     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

had  died;  whether  Tom  had  ever  worked  on  a 
ship,  whether  he  had  any  relatives  born  in  or  liv- 
ing in  Germany  or  Austria,  whether  he  had  ever 
been  employed  by  a  German,  and  so  on  and  so  on. 

All  this  went  down  in  the  big  book,  in  which 
Tom  had  a  page  all  to  himself,  and  the  last  ques- 
tion left  a  chill  upon  him  as  he  followed  his  young 
companion  from  the  cabin — Whom  to  notify  in 
case  of  accident. 

"Accident,"  he  thought.  "That  means  tor- 
pedoing." 

But  against  this  was  the  glad  news  that  for  the 
round  trip  of  presumably  a  month,  he  would  re- 
ceive one  hundred  and  sixty  dollars,  forty  dollars 
payable  on  arrival  in  a  "foreign  port,"  the  bal- 
ance "on  return  to  an  American  port." 

There  would  be  no  call  upon  this  stupendous 
sum,  save  what  he  chose  to  spend  in  the  mysteri- 
ous, unknown  foreign  port,  and  as  Tom  reflected 
on  this  he  felt  like  the  regular  story-book  hero 
who  goes  away  under  a  cloud  of  suspicion  and 
comes  back  loaded  with  wealth  and  glory. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE    EXCITED    PASSENGER 

"They'll  turn  you  down  if  you  have  a  Ger- 
man-silver watch  in  your  pocket,"  commented 
Archer,  as  they  descended  another  companion- 
way;  "or  if  you  had  the  German  measles.  Didn't 
I  tell  you  I'd  get  you  through  all  right?  You 
stick  on  the  job,  and  they'll  sign  you  up  for  trans 
port  service — then  you'll  see  some  fun." 

"I  got  to  thank  you,"  said  Tom. 

"You  notice  I'm  not  afraid  of  any  ot  them?" 
Archer  boasted;  "I  know  how  to  handle  them — 
I've  got  them  all  eating  out  of  my  hand — all  but 
the  captain.  We're  like  a  big  family  here;  that's 
on  account  of  the  danger  and  there  not  being 
many  passengers.  I  understand,"  he  whispered 
significantly,  "that  there's  some  soldiers  on  board 
• — a  few  of  Pershing's  men,  I  guess." 

The  butcher's  domain  seemed  to  be  a  long  way 
below  decks.  It  had  all  the  appurtenances  of  a 
regular  store — chopping  block,  hangers,  etc. — 
and  the  butcher  himself  was  a  genial  soul,  who 

109 


i  io    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

took  Tom  in  hand  without  any  ceremony  after  the 
usual  banter  with  the  flippant  young  Archibald, 
who  here  took  his  departure,  leaving  Tom  to  his 
fate. 

"Come  up  to  five-ninety-two  on  the  promenade 
deck  and  you  can  bunk  with  me — I'll  fix  it  with 
the  deck  steward,"  said  Archer;  and  he  was  as 
good  as  his  word,  for  later  Tom  joined  him  in  an 
airy  stateroom,  opening  on  the  main  deck,  where 
they  enjoyed  a  sumptuousness  of  accommodation 
quite  unusual  in  the  ordinary  state  of  things,  but 
made  possible  by  the  very  small  passenger  list. 

Indeed,  Tom  was  soon  to  find  that,  while  dis- 
cipline was  strict  and  uncompromising,  as  it  al- 
ways is  at  sea,  there  was  a  kind  of  spirit  of  fra- 
ternity among  the  ship's  people,  high  and  low, 
caused  no  doubt,  as  Archer  had  said,  by  their  par- 
ticipation in  a  common  peril  and  by  the  barnlike 
emptiness  of  the  great  vessel  with  freight  piled  on 
all  the  passenger  decks  and  in  the  most  inappro- 
priate places.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  camping 
about  all  this  makeshift  which  seemed  to  have 
gotten  into  the  spirits  of  the  ship's  company  and 
to  have  drawn  them  together. 

"Now  I'll  take  you  down,"  said  the  butcher, 
"and  show  you  the  store-rooms  and  refrigerators 


THE  EXCITED  PASSENGER        in 

— you'll  be  running  up  and  down  these  steps  a 
good  part  of  the  time." 

They  were  no  steps,  but  an  iron  ladder  leading 
down  from  the  butcher's  apartment  to  a  dark  pas- 
sage, where  he  turned  on  an  electric  light. 

"Now,  these  three  doors,"  he  said,  "are  to  the 
three  store-rooms — one,  two,  three." 

Tom  followed  him  into  one  of  the  rooms.  It 
was  large  and  delightfully  cool  and  immaculately 
clean.  All  around  were  rows  of  shelves  with 
screen  doors  before  them,  and  here  were  stored 
canned  goods — thousands  upon  thousands  of 
cans,  Tom  would  have  said. 

"You  won't  touch  anything  in  here,"  his  supe- 
rior told  him.  "None  of  this  will  be  used  before 
the  return  trip — maybe  not  then.     Come  in  here." 

Tom  followed  him  through  a  passage  from 
this  room  into  another  exactly  like  it.  Along  the 
passage  were  great  ice  box  doors.  "Cold  stor- 
age," his  superior  observed.  "You  won't  have  to 
go  in  there  much." 

"Now  here's  where  you'll  get  your  stuff.  It's 
all  alphabetical;  if  you  want  tomatoes,  go  to  T; 
if  you  want  salmon — S.  Just  like  a  dictionary. 
If  I  send  you  down  for  thirty  pounds  of  salmon, 
that  doesn't  mean  thirty  cans — see?" 


1 1 2     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Tom. 

"Make  up  your  thirty  pounds  out  of  the  biggest 
cans — a  twenty  and  a  ten.  There's  your  opener," 
he  added,  pointing  to  a  rather  complicated  me- 
chanical can-opener  fastened  to  the  bulkhead. 
"Open  everything  before  you  bring  it  up." 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  led  Tom  from  one  place  to  another,  initiat- 
ing him  in  the  use  of  the  chopping  machine,  the 
slicing  machine,  etc.  "You  won't  find  things  very 
heavy  this  trip,"  he  said;  "but  next  trip  we'll  be 
feeding  five  thousand,  maybe.  Now's  the  time  to 
go  to  school  and  learn. — Here's  the  keys;  you 
must  always  keep  these  places  locked,"  he  added, 
as  he  himself  locked  one  of  the  doors  for  Tom. 
"They  were  just  left  open  while  they  were  being 
stocked.    Now  we'll  go  up." 

That  very  night,  when  the  great  city  was  asleep 
and  the  busy  wharves  along  the  waterfront  were, 
for  the  night's  brief  interval,  dark  and  lonesome, 
two  tug-boats,  like  a.  pair  of  sturdy  little  Davids, 
sidled  up  to  the  great  steel  Goliath  and  slowly  she 
moved  out  into  midstream  and  turned  her  tower- 
ing prow  toward  where  the  Goddess  of  Liberty 
held  aloft  her  beckoning  light  in  the  vast  darkness. 
And  Tom  Slade  was  off  upon  his  adventures. 


THE  EXCITED  PASSENGER        113 

Indeed,  the  first  one,  though  rather  tame,  had 
already  occurred.  He  and  Archer,  having  re- 
ceived intimations  that  the  vessel  might  sail  that 
night,  had  remained  up  to  enjoy  her  stealthy  noc- 
turnal departure,  and  the  fact  that  they  did  not 
know  whether  she  would  leave  or  not  had  only 
added  zest  and  pleasant  suspense  to  their  vigil. 

They  were  leaning  over  the  rail  watching  the 
maneuvering  of  the  tugs  when  suddenly  a  man, 
carrying  a  suitcase,  came  running  along  the  deck. 

"We're  not  sailing,  are  we  ?"  he  asked  excitedly, 
as  he  passed. 

"Looks  that  way,"  said  Archer. 

"Where's  the  gangway?  Down  that  way?"  the 
man  asked,  not  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"He'll  have  a  good  big  jump  to  the  gangway," 
said  Archer.  "I  guess  he  was  asleep  at  the  switch, 
hey?  What  d'you  say  if  we  go  down — just  for 
the  fun  of  it?" 

"Come  ahead,"  said  Tom. 

At  the  opening  where  the  gangway  had  been 
several  men,  including  the  excited  passenger,  were 
gathered.  The  rail  had  been  drawn  across  the 
space,  and  the  ship  was  already  a  dozen  feet  or  so 
from  the  wharf.  Tom  and  Archer  paused  in  the 
background,  wisely  inconspicuous. 


1 14    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"Certainly  you  can't  go  ashore — how  are  you 
going  to  get  ashore — jump?"  asked  an  officer 
good-humoredly. 

"You  can  have  the  gangway  put  up,"  insisted 
the  man. 

"You're  talking  nonsense,"  said  the  officer. 
"Can't  you  see  we're  out  of  reach  and  moving?" 

"You'd  only  have  to  back  her  in  a  yard  or 
two,"  said  the  man  excitedly. 

"What,  the  ship?"  asked  the  officer,  in  good- 
natured  surprise;  and  several  other  men  laughed. 

"There's  no  use  my  starting  without  my 
^paratus!"  said  the  passenger,  his  anger  mount- 
ing. "It  will  be  here  to-morrow  morning;  it  is 
promised!  I  was  informed  the  ship  would  not 
sail  before  to-morrow  night.  This  is  an  out- 
rage  " 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  said  the  officer. 

"There's  no  use  my  going  without  my  belong- 
ings," the  man  persisted  angrily.  "I  demand  to 
be  put  ashore." 

"That's  impossible,  sir." 

"It  is  not  impossible!  This  is  an  unspeakable 
outrage!" 

"The  wharf  closed  this  afternoon;  notice  was 
posted,  sir,"  said  the  officer  patiently. 


THE  EXCITED  PASSENGER        115 

"I  saw  no  notice.!"  thundered  the  man.  "It's 
of  no  use  for  me  to  go  without  my  belongings,  I 
tell  you  !  I  cannot  go !  This  is  outrageous  !  I 
cannot  go !    I  demand  to  be  put  ashore !" 

By  this  time  the  vessel  was  in  midstream,  his 
"demands"  becoming  more  impossible  every  mo- 
ment and  his  tirade  growing  rather  wearisome. 
At  least  that  was  what  most  of  the  by-standers 
seemed  to  think,  for  they  sauntered  away,  laugh- 
ing, and  the  two  boys,  seeing  that  nothing  sensa- 
tional was  likely  to  happen,  returned  to  the  for- 
ward part  of  the  ship. 

"Do  you  think  he  was  a  German?"  said  Tom. 

"No,  sure  he  wasn't.  Didn't  you  hear  what 
good  English  he  talked?" 

"Yes,  but  he  said  aparatus,"  said  Tom,  "instead 
of  saying  it  the  regular  way.  And  he  was  sorry 
he  said  it,  too,  because  the  next  time  he  said 
belongings." 

"You  make  me  lau^h,"  said  Archer. 

"There's  another  thing  that  makes  me  think 
he's  a  German,"  said  Tom,  indifferent  to  Archer's 
scepticism. 

"What's  that?" 

"He  wanted  the  ship  brought  back  just  on  his 
account." 


CHAPTER    XVI 

TOM   MAKES    A    DISCOVERY 

Tom  slept  fitfully  in  his  upper  berth,  thinking 
much  of  home  and  the  troop  and  the  people  back 
in  Bridgeboro.  He  realized  now,  as  he  had  not 
before,  the  seriousness  of  the  step  he  had  taken. 
It  came  home  to  him  in  the  quiet  of  the  long  night 
and  tinged  his  thoughts  with  homesickness. 

Once,  twice,  in  his  restlessness,  he  clambered 
down  and  looked  out  through  the  brass-bound 
port-hole  across  the  deserted  deck  and  out  upon 
the  waste  of  ocean.  Not  a  single  reminder  was 
there  of  the  old  familiar  life,  not  a  friendly  light 
in  the  vast,  watery  darkness. 

He  began  to  regard  what  he  had  done  as  a 
kind  of  wilful  escapade,  and  though  not  exactly 
sorry  for  the  action,  he  felt  strange  and  lonesome, 
and  his  thoughts  turned  wistfully  to  the  troop 
meeting  which  he  knew  was  now  over.  He 
thought  of  Pee-wee,  with  his  trusty  belt-axe,  going 
scout-pace  up  Main  Street  on  his  journey  home- 
ward; of  Roy  leaving  Mr.  Ellsworth  where  the 

116 


TOM  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY      117 

street  up  Blakeley's  Hill  began;  of  the  office  and 
Margaret  Ellison,  and  of  his  accustomed  tasks. 

No,  he  was  not  exactly  sorry,  but  he — he 
wished  that  the  vessel  had  not  started  quite  so 
soon,  and  so  suddenly.  He  had  never  dreamed 
that  the  momentous  and  perilous  step  of  crossing 
the  ocean  was  begun  with  so  little  ceremony. 

This  train  of  thought  suggested  the  passenger 
who  had  wished  to  go  ashore,  and  as  Tom  lay  in 
his  berth,  wakeful  but  pleasantly  lulled  by  the 
slow,  steady  vibration  of  the  great  ship,  he  won- 
dered who  the  man  was  and  why  he  couldn't  sail 
without  his  belated  luggage.  He  recalled  how 
the  man  had  said  ^paratus  once  and  how,  after 
that,  he  had  said  belongings.  Then  he  recalled 
young  Archer's  laugh  at  his  suspicion,  and  he  de- 
cided that  it  was  only  his  own  imagination  that 
had  given  rise  to  it.  He  thought  rather  wistfully 
how  Roy  had  often  called  him  Sherlock  Nobody 
Holmes. 

To  be  sure,  the  man's  apparent  willingness  to 
have  the  world  turned  upside  down  for  his  per- 
sonal convenience  had  quite  a  German  flavor  to  it, 
but  it  was  not,  after  all,  a  very  suspicious  circum- 
stance, and  the  cheerful  light  of  morning  found 
Tom's  surmise  quite  melted  away.    It  needed  only 


1 1 8     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

the  memory  of  Roy's  taunting  smile  to  turn  his 
thoughts  to  sober  realities. 

"When  you  get  through,  come  aft  and  we'll 
jolly  the  gun  crew,"  said  Archer,  as  Tom  left  the 
little  room. 

He  made  his  way  along  the  deck,  bent  on  his 
new  duties,  bucking  the  brisk  morning  breeze,  and 
holding  on  to  the  peaked  service  cap  which  he  had 
been  given,  to  keep  it  from  blowing  off.  The 
steel-colored  water  rolled  in  a  gentle  swell,  reflect- 
ing the  bright  sunlight,  and  little  flaky  clouds 
scurried  across  the  sky,  as  if  hurrying  to  their 
day's  tasks  also.  Far  off  toward  the  horizon  a 
tiny  fleck  of  white  was  discernible,  but  no  other 
sign  of  life  or  of  man's  work  was  visible  in  the 
illimitable  waste. 

To  Tom  it  did  not  seem  an  angry  ocean,  but, 
like  the  woods  which  he  knew  and  loved  so  well, 
a  place  of  peace  and  quietude,  a  refuge  from  the 
swarming,  noisy  land.  And  across  the  vast  waste 
plowed  the  great  ship,  going  straight  upon  her 
business,  and  never  faltering. 

The  door  of  the  wireless  room  was  thrown 
open  as  he  passed,  and  the  young  operator  was 
sitting  back,  with  the  receivers  on  his  ears  and  his 
feet  on  the  instrument  shelf,  eating  a  sandwich. 


TOM  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY       119 

"H'lo,  kiddo,"  said  he. 

In  this  strange  environment  Tom  was  glad  to 
hear  the  operator  say,  "H'lo,  kiddo,"  just  as  he 
might  have  said  it  on  the  street.  He  paused  at 
the  door  for  a  moment  and  looked  about  the  cozy, 
ship-shape  little  room  with  its  big  coil  and  its 
splendid,  powerful  instrument. 

"Do  you  live  in  here?"  he  asked. 

"Nope,"  said  the  operator;  "but  I'm  doing 
both  shifts,  and  I  s'pose  I'll  have  to  sleep  right 
here  with  the  claps  on  this  trip." 

"Isn't  there  another  operator?"  Tom  asked. 

"Yup — but  he  didn't  show  up." 

Tom  hesitated,  not  sure  whether  he  ought  to 
venture  further  in  familiar  discourse  with  this  for- 
tunate and  important  young  man,  whom  he 
envied. 

"The  man  at  the  gate  said  everybody  was  on 
board,"  he  finally  observed;  "he  said  all  the 
passes  were  taken  up." 

The  operator  shrugged  his  shoulders  indiffer- 
ently. "I  don't  know  anything  about  that," 
said  he. 

"/  got  a  wireless  set  of  my  own,"  Tom  ven- 
tured. "It's  just  a  small  one — for  boy  scouts. 
It  hasn't  got  much  sending  power." 


120     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"He  used  to  be  a  boy  scout,*'  said  the  operator 
pleasantly.     "That's  where  he  first  picked  it  up." 

"The  other  operator?" 

"Yup." 

"I  learned  some  myself,"  said  Tom. 

The  operator  did  not  seem  inclined  to  talk 
more,  and  Tom  went  along  the  deck  where  a  few 
early  risers  were  sauntering  back  and  forth  enjoy- 
ing the  fresh  morning  breeze.  He  noticed  that 
life  preservers  were  laid  across  the  rail  loosely 
tied  and  that  others  stood  in  little  piles  at  inter- 
vals along  the  deck,  loosely  tied  also. 

He  ate  his  breakfast  in  messroom  No.  2  with 
the  deck  stewards  and  their  boys  and  greatly  en- 
joyed it,  though  his  thoughts  more  than  once 
turned  enviously  to  the  wireless  operator.  After 
breakfast  he  went  down  into  his  own  domains, 
where,  according  to  instructions,  he  took  from  a 
certain  meat-hook  a  memorandum  of  what  he  was 
to  bring  up  from  below. 

Descending  the  dark  companionway,  he  turned 
on  the  electric  light,  and  stood  puzzled  for  a  mo- 
ment, paper  in  hand. 

"That's  just  exactly  like  me,"  he  said.  "I  got 
to  admit  it." 

The  fact  was  that  despite  his  tour  of  initiation 


TOM  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY       121 

under  the  butcher's  guidance  he  was  puzzled  to 
know  which  of  the  two  doors  opened  into  the 
room  from  which  supplies  were  for  the  present  to 
be  drawn.  At  a  hazard  he  opened  one  of  them, 
and  on  entering  did  not  immediately  perceive  the 
room  to  be  the  wrong  one. 

Sliding  open  one  of  the  screen  doors,  he 
stooped  and  lifted  out  a  couple  of  cans  from  a 
lower  shelf.  As  he  did  so  he  heard  the  usual, 
unmuffled  ticking  which  was  pretty  sure  to  accom- 
pany the  stooping  posture  with  Tom  and  which 
always  notified  him  that  his  big  trusty  nickel  watch 
was  dangling  on  its  nickel  chain. 

But  it  was  not  dangling  this  time,  and  Tom 
paused  in  surprise,  for  the  ticking  continued  quite 
audibly  and  apparently  very  close  to  him._  He 
took  out  his  watch  and  held  it  to.  his  ear,  and  was 
surprised  to  find  that  its  sound  was  quite  distinct 
from  another  and  slower  ticking  somewhere 
near  by. 

He  looked  about  for  a  clock,  but  could  sec 
none. 

"Huh,  that's  funny,"  he  said,  still  listening. 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  he  lifted  several  more  cans 
from  the  shelf  and  knelt  down,  holding  his  ear 


122     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE.  COLORS 

close  to  the  space.  From  somewhere  behind  the 
cans  came  the  steady  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick  .  .  . 

For  a  moment  he  knelt  there  in  surprise.  Then 
hurriedly  he  lifted  out  can  after  can  until  there  lay 
revealed  upon  the  shelf  a  long,  dark  object.  The 
ticking  was  louder  now. 

He  touched  the  object  gingerly,  and  found  that 
it  was  held  fast  in  place  by  a  wire  which  ran  from 
a  screw  in  the  shelf  to  another  screw  in  the  bulk 
head  above  it,  and  was  thus  effectually  prevented 
from  moving  with  the  rolling  of  the  ship.  Some 
excelsior  lay  upon  the  shelf,  which  had  evidently 
been  stuffed  between  the  ticking  object  and  the 
back  row  of  cans. 

Something — Tom  did  not  know  just  what,  but 
some  sudden  presentiment — prompted  him  to  step 
quickly  through  the  passage  in  order  to  make  sure 
that  he  had  entered  the  right  room.  Then  he  dis- 
covered his  mistake. 

The  room  he  had  entered  was  the  store-room 
from  which  no  supplies  were  to  be  taken  on  the 
present  trip. 

He  turned  back  and  knelt  again,  the  cans  he  had 
removed  standing  all  about  him.  One  of  them, 
which  in  his  haste  he  had  laid  upon  its  side,  began 
to  roll  with  the  jarring  of  the  vessel,  and  Tom 


TOM  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY       123 

shuddered  with  a  kind  of  panic  fright  at  the  sud- 
den noise  it  made,  and  with  trembling  hands  he  set 
the  innocent  can  upright. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick    .    .    . 

What  did  it  mean?    What  should  he  do? 

His  next  impulse  was  to  run  upstairs  and  re- 
port what  he  had  discovered.  He  did  not  dare  to 
touch  the  thing  again. 

Then  he  realized  that  something — something 
terrible — might  happen  while  he  was  gone.  Some- 
thing might  happen  in  five  minutes — the  next  min- 
ute— the  next  second! 

Still  kneeling,  for  strangely  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  move,  he  watched  the  thing  in  a  sort  of 
fascination. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick — it  went,  on  its  steady, 
grim  journey  toward — t 

Toward  what? 

Still  Tom  did  not  budge. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick — it  went;  heed* 
less,  cheerful,  like  a  clock  on  a  mantelpiece. 

And  still  Tom  Slade  remained  just  where  he 
was,  stark-still  and  trembling. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

ONE    OF    THE    BLOND    BEAST'S    WEAPONS 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  Tom  Slade,  ship's  boy, 
vasappeared,  and  there  in  his  place  was  Tom 
Slade,  scout;  calm,  undismayed — the  same  Tom 
Slade  who  had  looked  about  him,  calm  and  re- 
sourceful, when  he  was  lost  in  the  great  woods, 
and  who  had  kept  his  nerve  when  menaced  by  a 
savage  beast. 

He  cautiously  removed  the  encircling  wire, 
lifted  the  object  out  with  both  hands,  finding  it 
surprisingly  heavy,  and  laid  it  carefully  upon  the 
stationary  table  where  cans*  were  usually  assorted 
and  opened. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick — it  went  cheerfully 
along  on  its  tragic  errand. 

It  appeared  to  consist  of  a  piece  of  ordinary 
stovepipe  about  twelve  inches  long.  The  face  and 
works  of  an  alarm  clock,  being  of  a  slightly 
smaller  circumference,  had  been  placed  within 
one  end  of  the  pipe,  the  face  out,  and  the  interven- 
ing space  around  this  was  packed  with  cotton 
waste.  The  other  end  of  the  pipe  was  closed  with 
a  kind  of  gummy  cement. 

124 


THE  BLOND  BEAST'S  WEAPONS    125 

Tom  observed  that  the  little  alarm  dial  in.  the 
clock's  face  was  set  for  nine  o'clock,  which  of 
course  afforded  him  infinite  relief,  for  it  was  not 
yet  seven. 

With  the  greatest  of  care  and  hands  trembling , 
a  little,  he  pulled  out  some  of  the  cotton  waste 
around  the  clock  face,  holding  the  dial  steady  with 
one  hand,  and  found  that  nothing  save  this  pack- 
ing was  holding  the  clock  in  place.  He  joggled  it 
very  gently  this  way  and  that  to  make  sure  that  it 
was  not  connected  with  anything  behind.  Then 
he  lifted  it  out  and  stood  it  upright  on  a  shelf  with 
cans  on  either  side  of  it  to  keep  it  in  place. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick — it  went  just  as 
before,  as  if  not  in  the  least  disappointed  that  its 
tragic  purpose  had  been  thwarted;  tick,  tick,  tick, 
tick — like  the  old  alarm  clock  that  used  to  stand 
on  the  shelf  above  the  sink  in  Barrel  Alley. 

There  was  no  Gold  Cross  for  this  little  act  of 
Tom's,  and  no  "loud  plaudits,"  as  Pee-Wee  would 
have  said,  but  Tom  Slade  had  saved  a  couple  of 
hundred  lives,  just  the  same. 

It  occurred  to  him  now  that  pretty  soon  he 
would  be  expected  upstairs.  The  hands  of  the 
clock  pointed  to  a  quarter  of  six  and  Tom's  own 


126     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

watch,  which  was  as  honest,  plain  and  reliable  as 
he  was  himself,  said  twelve  minutes  of  seven. 

"That's  funny,"  said  he. 

He  peered  into  the  open  space  which  the 're- 
moval of  the  clock  had  left  in  the  pipe's  end.  It 
ran  for  about  four  or  five  inches,  where  the  pipe 
appeared  to  be  sealed  with  the  same  gummy  sub- 
stance as  at  the  other  end. 

On  the  inside  of  the  pipe  'was  a  rough-looking, 
yellowish  area  about  two  inches  square,  and  from 
this  two  black,  heavy  cords  ran  to  the  cement  wall. 

Tom  understood  at  once  the  mechanism  of  this 
horrible  thing.  The  bell  of  the  alarm  clock  had 
been  removed,  and  the  clock  so  placed  that  at  the 
fatal  tick  the  striker  would  have  vibrated  against 
this  rough  area,  which  was  probably  inflammable 
like  a  match-end  and  which,  on  being  ignited, 
would  have  ignited  the  fuse. 

Tom's  imagination  traced  the  hurrying  little 
flames,  racing  along  those  two  cords  to  see  which 
would  get  there  first,  and  he  shuddered,  thinking 
of  the  end  of  that  sprightly  little  race  to  the  awful 
goal    .    .    . 

His  lip  curled  a  little  as  he  looked  at  the  now 
harmless  piece  of 'junk  and  as  his  eyes  wandered 
to  the  impenitent  clock  which,  without  any  vestige 


THE  BLOND  BEAST'S  WEAPONS  127 

of  remorse  or  contrition,  was  ticking  merrily  up 
there  on  the  shelf,  out  of  harm's  way  between  the 
sentinels  of  cans. 

"Huh,  I  don't  call  that  fighting!"  he  said. 

Tom's  knowledge  of  war  was  confined  to  what 
he  had  learned  at  school.  He  knew  about  the 
Battle  of  Bunker  Hill  and  that  ripping  old  fight, 
the  Battle  of  Lexington.  These  two  encounters 
represented  what  he  understood  war  to  be. 

When  Mr.  Ellsworth  had  taken  him  in  hand, 
he  had  told  him  a  few  things  known  to  scouts: 
that  it  was  cowardly  to  throw  stones;  that  it  was 
contemptible  to  strike  a  person  in  the  back  or  be- 
low the  waist;  that  fighting  was  bad  enough,  but 
that  if  fights  must  be  fought  they  should  be  fought 
in  the  open.  That  a  boy  should  never,  never 
strike  a  girl    .    .    . 

And  what  kind  of  fighting  was  this?  thought 
Tom.  Was  it  not  exactly  like  the  boy  who  sneaks 
behind  a  fence  and  throws  stones? 

"That  ain't  fighting,"  he  repeated. 

Methodically  he  went  upstairs.  His  immediate 
superior  was  "Butch,"  but  his  ultimate  superior 
was  Mr.  Cressy,  the  steward;  and  to  him  he  now 
went. 

"I  got  somethin'  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Cressy,"  he 


i28     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

said  hurriedly.  "I  made  a  mistake  and  went  into 
the  wrong  room,  and  there's  a  bomb  there.  It 
was  set  for  nine  o'clock.  I  fixed  it  so's  it  can't 
go  off." 

"What?"  ejaculated  the  steward. 

"I  fixed  it  so  it  can't  go  off,"  Tom  repeated 
dully.  "If  I'd  waited  till  I  told  you,  it  might  'a' 
gone  off  by  mistake." 

His  manner  was  so  entirely  free  from  excite- 
ment that  for  a  moment  the  steward  could  only 
stare  at  him. 

"There  ain't  any  danger  now,"  said  Tom. 

The  steward  whistled  to  himself  thoughtfully. 

"Go  down  there  and  wait  till  I  come,  and  don't 
say  anything  about  this  to  anybody,"  said  he. 

Tom  went  down,  feeling  quite  important*;  he 
was  being  drawn  head  and  shoulders  into  the  war 
now.  Once  the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  per- 
haps he  would  be  suspected  of  something.  For 
he  thought  he  knew  now  how  easily  people  did 
"get  misjudged."  But  that  seemed  absurd,  and 
he  dismissed  the  thought  of  it — just  as  he  had  dis- 
missed the  thought  of  Roscoe  Bent's  really  doing 
anything  wrong  or  cowardly. 

But  still  a  vague   feeling  of  uneasiness  held 
him    .    .    . 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

SHERLOCK  NOBODY  HOLMES 

In  a  few  minutes  the  steward  came  down  with 
the  captain  and  the  first  officer  and  a  man  in  civil- 
ian's clothes,  who  carried  a  cigar  in  the  corner  of 
his  mouth  and  who  Tom  thought  must  be  of  the 
Secret  Service.  Tom  stood  greatly  in  awe  of  the 
captain,  who  seemed  the  very  type  of  exalted  dig- 
nity. But  a  cat  may  look  at  a  king,  and  he  stared 
at  that  autocrat,  resolved  to  answer  manfully 
whatever  questions  were  asked  him. 

"Confirms  your  suspicions,  eh?"  said  the  cap- 
tain to  the  man  in  plain  clothes,  after  a  gingerly 
inspection  of  the  ominous  piece  of  stove  pipe. 

"Hmmm,"  said  the  other  man;  "yes;  no  doubt 
of  it.  Wish  I'd  taken  him  up  last  trip  when  he 
sent  that  message.  We'll  have  a  job  finding  him 
now." 

"I  don't  see  how  he  could  have  got  ashore  since 
nine  o'clock  last  night,"  said  the  first  officer. 

"Well,  he  did,  anyway,"  said  the  Secret  Serv- 
ice man;  "they're  getting  by  every  day,  and  they 
will  until  we  have  martial  law  along  the  water- 

129 


i3o    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

front.  You  see,  this  is  where  he  had  to  come 
through  to  his  locker,"  he  added,  looking  about. 

The  captain  gave  a  brief  order  to  the  first  of- 
ficer to  have  the  vessel  searched  at  once  for  more 
bombs.  The  officer  hurried  away  and  presently 
came  back  again.  The  Secret  Service  man  was 
intently  examining  the  floor,  the  jamb  around  the 
door,  and  the  casing  of  the  port-hole.  The  cap- 
tain, too,  scrutinized  the  place,  as  if  he  hoped  it 
might  yield  some  valuable  information;  and  Tom, 
feeling  very  awkward,  stood  silently  watching 
them. 

"Here  you  are,"  said  the  Secret  Service  man, 
indicating  a  brown  stain  on  the  door  jamb. 

The  other  three  men  stepped  over  to  the  spot, 
but  Tom,  who  did  not  dare  to  join  them,  stood 
just  where  he  was,  looking  uncouth  and  out  of 
place  in  the  ill-fitting  white  duck  jacket  and  blue 
peaked  service  cap  which  had  been  given  him. 

"There  you  are,  Captain,"  said  the  Secret  Serv- 
ice man;  "see  that  finger-mark?  The  skin  lines 
aren't  as  clear,  see?  That's  from  constant  pres- 
sure. That's  the  finger  he  uses  to  press  his  wire- 
less key." 

"Hmm,"  said  the  captain. 

"I've  had  my  eye  on  that  young  operator  for 


SHERLOCK  NOBODY  HOLMES     131 

the  last  two  trips,"  said  the  plain-clothes  man; 
"he's  undoubtedly  the  fellow  who  sent  that  code 
message  that  tipped  Elder  off  and  posted  him 
about  the  Republic's  sailing.  I  never  liked  his 
name — Hinnerman.  We  might  have  known  he 
wouldn't  show  up  for  this  trip." 

"He  was  a  hold-over  on  board,"  said  the  first 
officer,  "and  didn't  come  in  for  the  government 
quiz.  They  should  have  all  been  thrown  out. — 
Think  the  other  operator's  all  right?"  he  added. 

"Oh,  yes;  he's  got  two  brothers  in  military  serv- 
ice," said  the  captain  conclusively. 

"See,  here's  another  finger-mark — thumb.  And 
here's  a  couple  more,"  said  the  plain-clothes 
man,  indicating  several  less  distinguishable  marks 
around  the  port-hole. 

No  one  paid  any  attention  to  Tom.  He 
watched  the  four  men  as  they  examined  the  little 
signs  which  they  thought  verified  their  conclusion 
that  the  missing  wireless  operator  had  placed  the 
bomb. 

"You  see,  he  knew  this  room  wouldn't  be  used, 
probably  not  entered  this  trip,"  said  the  Secret 
Service  man. 

"It  was  a  lucky  mistake  this  boy  made,"  said 
the  first  officer,  glancing  not  unkindly  at  Tom. 


132     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"Mraram,"  said  the  captain. 
Tom  did  not  know  whether  to  take  this  for 
praise  or  not.  He  stood,  silent  but  very  thought- 
ful. None  of  his  four  superiors  took  the  trouble 
to  acknowledge  his  act,  nor  even  to  address  him, 
and  he  had  to  piece  together  as  best  he  could, 
from  their  conversation,  the  reasons  for  their 
long-standing  suspicions  of  the  missing  operator's 
disloyalty.  Never  in  all  his  life  had  Tom  felt  his 
own  insignificance  as  he  did  now. 

The  Secret  Service  man  was  very  self-confident 
and  very  convincing.  His  conclusions,  in  view  of 
past  suspicions,  seemed  natural  enough,  and  Tom 
could  not  help  envying  and  admiring  him  from  his 
obscure  corner. 

"I'll  send  a  wireless  right  away,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, as  the  four  moved  toward  the  door. 

For  a  few  seconds  Tom  struggled  to  master  his 
timidity.  He  felt  just  as  he  had  felt  when  he 
talked  to  Margaret  Ellison  and  when  he  had 
faced  Roscoe  Bent's  father.  These  uniformed 
officials  were  as  beings  from  another  world  to 
poor  Tom,  and  the  Secret  Service  man  seemed  a 
marvel  of  sagacity  and  subtle  power. 

As  they  reached  the  door,  he  spoke,  his  voice 


SHERLOCK  NOBODY  HOLMES     133 

shaking  a  little,  but  in  the  slow,  almost  expression- 
less way  which  was  characteristic  of  him. 

"If  you'd  wait  a  minute,  I  got  something  to 
say,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  first  officer  not  unpleasantly. 
The  captain  paused  impatiently.  The  Secret 
Service  man  smiled  a  little.  Indeed,  there  was 
plenty  to  smile  at  (for  the  captain,  too,  if  that 
dignitary  would  have  so  condescended)  for 
Tom's  sleeves,  which  were  ridiculously  long,  were 
clutched  in  his  two  hands  as  if  to  keep  them  from 
running  away  and  the  peak  of  his  cap  was  almost 
over  his  ear  instead  of  being  where  it  belonged. 

"I  heard  this  morning,"  said  Tom,  "that  the 
other  operator — the  one  that  isn't  here — that  he 
used  to  be  a  scout.  I'm  a  scout,  and  so  I  know 
what  kind  of  fellers  scouts  are.  They  ain't 
traitors  or  anything  like  that.  Something  hap- 
pened to  me  lately,  so  I  know  how  easy  it  is  to 
get  misjudged.  If  he  was  a  scout,  then  he  wasn't 
a  German,  even  if  he  might  have  had  a  German 
name,  'cause  Germans  stay  by  themselves  and 
don't  join  in,  kind  of    .    .    ." 

The  captain  made  a  move  as  if  to  go. 

"But  that  ain't  what  I  wanted  to  say,"  said 
Tom. 


i34    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

The  captain  paused. 

There  was  something  about  Tom's  blunt,  plain 
speech  and  slow  manner  which  amused  the  first 
officer,  and  he  listened  with  rather  more  patience 
than  the  others. 

"There  was  a  man  tried  to  get  off  the  ship  last 
night,"  said  Tom.     "He " 

uOh,  yes,  that  was  Doctor  Curry  from  Ohio," 
laughed  the  first  officer  indulgently.  "I  hunted 
him  up  on  the  purser's  list — he's  all  right.  He 
flew  off  the  handle  because  his  baggage  didn't 
come.     He's  all  right,  boy." 

"The  man  that  started  the  English  scouts,"  said 
Tom,  undaunted,  "says  if  you  want  to  find  out  if 
a  person  is  foreign,  you  got  to  get  him  mad.  Even 
if  he  talks  good  English,  when  he  gets  excited 
he'll  say  some  words  funny  like." 

The  captain  turned  upon  his  heel. 

"But  that  ain't  what  I  was  going  to  say,  either," 
said  Tom  dully.  "Anybody  that  knows  anything 
about  wireless  work  knows  that  operators  have  to 
have  exactly  the  right  time.  That's  the  first  thing 
they  learn — that  their  watches  have  got  to  be  ex- 
actly right — even  to  the  second.  I  know,  'cause 
I  studied  wireless  and  I  read  the  correspondence 
catalogues. " 


SHERLOCK  NOBODY  HOLMES     135 

"Well?"  encouraged  the  Secret  Service  man. 

But  it  was  pretty  hard  to  hurry  Tom. 

"The  person  that  put  that  bomb  there,"  said  he, 
"probably  started  it  going  and  set  it  after  he  got 
it  fixed  on  the  shelf;  and  he'd  most  likely  set  it  by 
his  own  watch.  You  can  see  that  clock  is  over  an 
hour  slow.  I  was  wonderin'  how  anybody's  watch 
would  be  an  hour  slow,  but  if  that  Doctor  Curry 
came  from  Ohio  maybe  he  forgot  to  set  his  watch 
ahead  in  Cleveland.  I  know  you  have  to  do  that 
when  you  come  east,  'cause  I  heard  a  man  say  so." 

A  dead  silence  prevailed,  save  for  the  sub- 
dued whistling  of  the  Secret  Service  man,  as  he 
scratched  his  head  and  eyed  Tom  sharply. 

"How  old  are  you,  anyway?"  said  he. 

"Seventeen,"  said  Tom.  "I  helped  a  feller  and 
got  misjudged,"  he  added  irrelevantly.  "A  scout 
is  a  brother  to  every  other  scout — all  over  the 
world.  'Specially  now,  when  England  and  France 
are  such  close  partners  of  ours,  like.  So  I'm  a 
brother  to  that  wireless  operator,  if  he  used  to  be 
a  scout. — Maybe  I  got  no  right  to  ask  you  to  do 
anything,  but  maybe  you'd  find  out  if  that  man's 
watch  is  an  hour  slow.  Maybe  you'd  be  willing  to 
do  that  before  you  send  a  wireless." 

The  captain  looked  full  at  Tom,  with  a  quizzi- 


136     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

cal,  shrewd  look.  He  saw  now,  what  he  had  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  notice  before:  a  boy  with  a 
big  mouth,  a  shock  of  rebellious  hair,  a  ridicu- 
lously ill-fitting  jacket,  and  a  peaked  cat  set  askew. 
Instinctively  Tom  pulled  off  his  cap. 

"What's  your  name?"  said  the  captain. 

"Tom  Slade,"  he  answered,  nervously  arrang- 
ing his  long  arms  in  the  troublesome,  starched 
sleeves.  "In  the  troop  I — used  to  belong  to,"  he 
ventured  to  add,  "they  called  me  Sherlock  No- 
body Holmes,  the  fellers  did,  because  I  was  inter- 
ested in  deduction  and  things  like  that." 

For  a  moment  the  captain  looked  at  him 
sternly.  Then  the  Secret  Service  man,  still  whis- 
tling with  a  strangely  significant  whistle,  stepped 
over  to  Tom. 

"Put  your  cap  on,"  said  he,  "frontways,  like 
that;  now  come  along  with  me,  and  we'll  see  if 
Doctor  Curry  from  Ohio  can  accommodate  us 
with  the  time." 

He  put  his  arm  over  Tom's  shoulder  just  as 
Mr.  Ellsworth  used  to  do,  and  together  they  left 
the  store-room.  It  seemed  to  Tom  a  very  long 
while  since  any  one  had  put  an  arm  over  his 
shoulder  like  that    .    .    « 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE    TIME    OF   DAY 

When  that  flippant  youth,  Archibald  Archer, 
making  his  morning  rounds  from  stateroom  to 
stateroom,  beheld  Tom  Slade  hurrying  along  the 
promenade  deck  under  the  attentive  convoy  of  one 
of  Uncle  Sam's  sleuths,  he  was  seized  with  a  sud- 
den fear  that  his  protege  was  being  arrested  as  a 
spy. 

But  Tom  was  never  farther  from  arrest  in  all 
his  life.  He  hurried  along  beside  his  companion, 
feeling  somewhat  apprehensive,  but  nevertheless 
quite  important. 

The  federal  detective  was  small  and  agile,  with 
a  familiar,  humorous  way  about  him  which  helped 
to  set  Tom  at  ease.  He  had  a  fashion  of  using 
his  cigar  as  a  sort  of  confidential  companion, 
working  it  over  into  one  corner  of  his  mouth,  then 
into  the  other,  and  poking  it  up  almost  perpendic- 
ularly as  he  talked.  Tom  liked  him  at  once,  but 
he  did  not  know  whether  to  take  literally  all  that 
he  said  or  not. 

137 


138     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"Long  as  you  told  me  your  name,  I  guess  I 
might  as  well  tell  you  mine,  hey?  Conne  is  my 
name — Carleton  Conne.  Sounds  like  a  detective 
in  a  story,  don't  it?  My  great-great-grandfather's 
mother-in-law  on  my  sister's  side  was  German. 
I'm  trying  to  live  it  down." 

"What?"  said  Tom. 

Mr.  Conne  screwed  his  cigar  over  to  the  corner 
of  his  mouth  and  looked  at  Tom  with  a  fupny 
look. 

"You  see,  we  want  to  meet  the  doctor  before 
he  has  a  chance  to  change  his  watch,"  said  Mr. 
Conne  more  soberly.  "If  he  set  that  thing  a  little 
after  nine  last  night  (and  he  couldn't  have  set  it 
before),  he  was  probably  too  busy  thinking  of 
getting  off  the  ship  to  think  of  much  else.  And 
he  ought  to  be  just  coming  out  of  his  stateroom 
by  now.  We  must  see  him  before  he  sees  a  clock. 
You  get  me?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Tom,  a  little  anxious;  "but  I 
might  be  wrong,  after  all." 

"Maybe,"  said  Mr.  Conne.  "There  are  three 
things  we'll  have  to  judge  by:  There's  his  trying 
to  get  off  the  ship  last  night,  and  there's  the  ques- 
tion of  how  his  watch  stands,  and  there's  the  ques- 
tion of  how  he  acts  when  we  talk  with  him — see?" 


THE  TIME  OF  DAY  239 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Since  you're  a  detective,  remember  this,"  Mr. 
Conne  added  good-humoredly :  "it's  part  of  the 
A  B  C  of  the  business.  Three  middle-sized  clues 
are  better  than  one  big  one — if  they  hang  to- 
gether. Six  little  ones  aren't  as  good  as  three 
middle-sized  ones,  because  sometimes  they  seem  to 
hang  together  when  they  don't  really — see?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Where'd  you  ever  get  your  eyes  and  ears,  any- 
way?" said  Mr.  Conne  abruptly. 

"You  learn  to  be  observant  when  you're  a 
scout,"  said  Tom. 

Mr.  Conne  moved  briskly  along  the  deck,  and 
Tom  kept  beside  him  with  his  rather  clumsy  gait. 
Here  and  there  little  groups  of  passengers  stood 
chatting  as  they  waited  for  breakfast.  Among 
them  were  a  few  men  in  khaki  whom  Tom  under- 
stood to  be  army  surgeons  and  engineers — the 
forerunners  of  the  legions  who  would  "come 
across"  later. 

"Which  would  you  rather  be,"  queried  Mr. 
Conne,  "a  detective  or  a  wireless  operator?" 

"I'd  rather  be  a  regular  soldier,"  said  Tom;  "I 
made  up  my  mind  to  it.  I'm  only  waiting  till  I'm 
eighteen." 


i4o    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

Mr.  Conne  gave  him  a  shrewd  sideways  glance, 
his  cigar  pointing  upward  like  a  piece  of  field  ar- 
tillery. 

"But  I  hope  I  can  work  on  this  ship  when  she's 
a  regular  transport,  and  keep  working  on  her  till 
I'm  eighteen." 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question  yet." 

"I  don't  know  which  I'd  rather  be,"  said  Tom. 

"Hmmm,"  said  Mr.  Conne. 

At  the  after-companionway  he  picked  up  a  deck 
steward  and  asked  him  to  point  out  Dr.  Curry,  if 
he  was  about. 

"What  do  you  suppose  became  of  the  other 
operator?"  Tom  asked,  a  little  anxiously. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Conne.  "We'll  have 
to  find  some  one  who  does  know,"  he  added  sig- 
nificantly, and  Tom  wondered  what  he  meant. 

"Do  you  think  he's  guilty  of  anything?"  he 
asked. 

"Don't  know.    You've  knocked  my  theories  all 
endways,  young  fellow,"  Mr.  Conne  said  pleas- 1 
antly;  and  then  he  added,  smiling,  "You  say  he 
was  a  scout;  I'm  getting  to  have  a  pretty  good 
opinion  of  scouts." 

"But  those  finger-prints " 

"Were  his,"  concluded  Mr.  Conne. 


THE  TIME  OF  DAY  141 

Tom  was  greatly  puzzled,  but  he  said  nothing. 
Soon  Dr.  Curry  was  pointed  out  to  them.  He 
was  pacing  up  and  down  the  deck,  and  paused  at 
the  rail  as  they  neared  so  that  they  were  able  to 
get  a  good  look  at  him.  He  was  tall  and  thin, 
with  a  black  mustache  and  a  very  aristocratic 
hooked  nose.  Perhaps  there  was  the  merest  sug- 
gestion of  the  foreigner  about  him,  but  nothing  in 
particular  to  suggest  the  German  unless  it  were  a 
touch  of  that  scornfully  superior  air  which  is  so 
familiar  in  pictures  of  the  Kaiser. 

"So  that's  the  Doctor,  is  it?"  Mr.  Conne  com- 
mented, eyeing  him  with  his  cigar  cocked  up  side- 
ways.    "Looks  kind  of  savage,  huh?" 

But  the  doctor's  savage  mien  did  not  phase  Mr. 
Conne  in  the  least,  for  he  sauntered  up  to  him 
with  a  friendly  and  familiar  air,  though  Tom  was 
trembling  all  over. 

"Excuse  me,  would  you  oblige  me  with  the 
time?"  Mr.  Conne  said  pleasantly. 

The  stranger  wheeled  about  suddenly  with  a 
very  pronounced  military  air  and  looked  at  his 
questioner. 

"The  time?  Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  with  brisk  for- 
mality and  taking  out  his  watch.  "It  is  just  half- 
past  six." 


142     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

Mr.  Conne  drew  out  his  own  watch  and  looked 
at  it  for  a  moment  as  if  perplexed.  "Then  one  of 
us  is  about  an  hour  out  of  the  way,"  he  said  so- 
ciably, while  Tom  stood  by  in  anxious  suspense. 
"According  to  the  alarm  clock  down  in  the  store- 
room, I  guess  you're  right,"  he  added. 

"What?"  said  the  passenger,  disconcerted. 

"According  to  the  time-bomb  down  below,"  re- 
peated Mr.  Conne,  still  sociably  but  with  a  keen, 
searching  look.  "What's  the  matter?  You  suf- 
fering from  nerves,  Doctor?" 

The  sudden  thrust,  enveloped  in  Mr.  Conne's 
easy  manner,  had  indeed  taken  the  doctor  almost 
off  his  feet. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  sir,"  he  said,  with 
forbidding  dignity  and  trying  to  regain  his  poise. 

"Well,  then,  I'll  explain,"  said  Mr.  Conne; 
"you  forgot  to  set  your  watch  when  you  left 
Cleveland,  Doc,  so  there  won't  be  any  explosion 
down  below  at  nine  o'clock,  and  there  won't  be 
any  at  all — so  don't  worry." 

He  worked  his  cigar  over  into  the  corner  of  his 
mouth  and  looked  up  at  his  victim  in  a  tantalizing 
manner,  waiting.  And  he  was  not  disappointed, 
for  in  the  angry  tirade  which  the  passenger  ut- 


THE  TIME  OF  DAY  143 

tered  it  became  very  apparent  that  he  was  a  for- 
eigner.   Mr.  Conne  seemed  quietly  amused. 

"Doc,"  said  he  sociably,  almost  confidentially, 
"I  believe  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  youngster  here, 
you'd  have  gotten  away  with  it.  It's  too  bad 
about  your  watch  being  slow — German  reservists 
and  ex-army  officers  ought  to  remember  when 
they're  traveling  that  this  is  a  wide  country  and 
that  East  is  East  and  West  is  West,  as  old  brother 
Kipling  says.  When  you're  coming  across  Uncle 
Sam's  backyard  to  blow  up  ships,  it's  customary  to 
put  your  watch  an  hour  ahead  in  Cleveland,  Doc. 
Didn't  they  tell  you  that?  Where's  all  your  Ger- 
man efficiency?  Here's  a  wideawake  young 
American  youngster  got  you  beaten  to  a  stand- 
still  " 

"This  is  abominable!"  roared  the  man. 

"Say  that  again,  Doc,"  laughed  Mr.  Conne. 
"I  like  the  way  you  say  it  when  you're  mad.  So 
that's  why  you  didn't  get  off  the  ship  in  time  last 
night,  eh?"  he  added,  with  a  touch  of  severity. 
"Watch  slow!  Bah!  You're  a  bungler,  Doc! 
First  you  let  your  watch  get  you  into  a  tight  place, 
then  you  let  it  give  you  away. 

"I  don't  know  who  you  are,  except  you  came 
from  west  of  Cleveland;  but  here's  an  American 


i44     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

boy,  never  studied  the  German  spy  system,  and,  by 
jingoes,  he's  tripped  you  up — and  saved  a  dozen 
ships  and  a  half  a  dozen  munition  factories,  for 
all  I  know.  German  efficiency — bah!  The  Boy 
Scouts  have  got  you  nailed  to  the  mast!  This 
is  the  kind  of  boys  we're  going  to  send  over, 
Doc.     Think  you  can  lick  'em?" 

Tom  was  blushing  scarlet  and  breathing  nerv- 
ously as  the  fierce,  contemptuous  gaze  of  the  tall 
man  was  bent  for  a  brief  second  upon  him.  But 
Mr.  Conne  winked  pleasantly  at  him,  and  it  quite 
nullified  that  scornful  look. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  detective  became  serious, 
interrupting  the  stranger,  who  had  begun  to  speak 
again,  and  brushing  his  words  aside. 

"You'll  have  to  show  me  your  passport,  sir," 
he  said,  "and  any  other  papers  you  have.  I'll  go 
to  your  stateroom  with  you.  Then  I'm  going  to 
lock  you  up.  I'll  expect  you  to  tell  me,  too,  what 
became  of  the  young  fellow  who  happened  to  dis- 
cover you  down  below  last  night.  You  and  he 
had  a  little  scuffle  down  there,  I  take  it. — Better 
run  along  about  your  duties  now,  Tom,  and  I'll 
see  you  later." 


CHAPTER    XX 

A    NEW   JOB 

For  a  few  moments  Tom  stood  gaping  at  the 
receding  figures,  with  Mr.  Conne's  remark  ring- 
ing in  his  ears :  /  shall  expect  you  to  tell  me  what 
became  of  the  young  fellow  who  happened  to  dis- 
cover you  down  below  last  night. 

Was  that  the  possible  explanation  of  the  miss- 
ing wireless  boy?  The  thought  of  this  complica- 
tion shocked  him.  What  could  it  mean?  The  de- 
tective had  evidently  fitted  the  whole  thing  to- 
gether. 

Finger-prints  were  finger-prints,  thought  Tom, 
and  a  finger-print  with  illegible  markings  in  the 
center  meant  a  telegraph  operator,  so  far  as  this 
particular  incident  was  concerned.  He  so  greatly 
admired  Mr.  Conne  that  as  usual  he  forgot  to 
admire  himself.    .     .    . 

The  man  must  have  been  discovered,  either  in 
the  act  of  placing  the  bomb,  or  perhaps  of  trying 
to  remove  it  when  he  found  that  he  must  sail  with 
the  ship,  and  there  had  been  a  scuffle  and 

145 


146     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

And  what?    Where  was  the  wireless  boy? 

Alas,  though  the  spy  was  apprehended,  it  was 
to  be  many  long  months  before  the  mystery  of 
the  missing  wireless  boy  should  be  cleared  up. 
And  who,  of  all  the  people  in  the  world,  do  you 
suppose  cleared  it  up?  Who  but  Pee-wee  Harris 
(don't  laugh)  and  his  trusty  belt-axe.  But  that  is 
part  of  another  story. 

The  arrest  of  "Dr.  Curry"  as  a  German  spy 
and  plotter  was  a  nine  hours'  wonder  on  the  ship, 
and  the  part  which  Tom  Slade  had  played  in  the 
affair  did  not  pass  without  comment.  Neither  the 
ship's  officers  nor  Mr.  Conne  took  him  into  their 
confidence  as  to  the  character  of  the  papers  found 
on  the  "doctor,"  but  he  understood  that  that 
scornful  personage  was  safely  lodged  somewhere 
"below,"  and  Mr.  Conne  did  go  so  far  as  to  tell 
him  that  "our  friend"  had  set  his  watch  right. 
Tom  did  not  dare  to  ask  questions,  even  of  his 
friend  the  detective,  who  chatted  pleasantly  with 
him  whenever  they  met. 

He  was  the  last  boy  in  the  world  to  expect  more 
consideration  than  was  due  him  or  to  make  much 
of  his  own  exploits,  and  if  his  superiors  did  not 
take  him  into  partnership  and  make  him  their 
confidant  and  adviser,  as  undoubtedly  they  would 


A  NEW  JOB  147 

have  done  in  a  story,  they  at  least  treated  him 
with  rather  more  consideration  than  is  usually 
given  to  ships'  boys,  and  the  awkward  young  fel- 
low in  the  ill-fitting  duck  jacket  and  peaked  hat 
askew  was  pointed  out  among  the  army  men  and 
passengers,  as  he  occasionally  passed  along  the 
decks,  as  one  who  had  a  head  on  his  shoulders  and 
a  pair  of  eyes  in  his  head. 

No  one  questioned  that  he  had  saved  the  vessel 
by  making  known  the  clew  which  had  sent  Dr. 
Curry  to  the  ship's  lock-up,  and  Tom,  satisfied  to 
have  done  something  worth  while  for  Uncle  Sam, 
attended  to  his  menial  duties,  and  did  not  think  of 
very  much  else. 

But  if  Uncle  Sam's  Secret  Service  man  had 
thought  it  best  not  to  be  too  confidential  with  him, 
kind  Fate  decreed  that  it  should  be  Tom  Slade 
and  none  other  who  should  clinch  the  case  against 
this  foreign  wretch  whose  plans  he  had  thwarted. 

It  happened  the  very  next  day,  beginning  with 
a  circumstance  which  made  Tom  feel  indeed  like 
a  hero  in  a  cheap  thriller. 

"The  captain  wants  to  see  you,"  said  a  young 
officer  from  the  bridge,  as  Tom  sat  with  his  flip- 
pant but  now  humble  admirer,  Archibald  Archer, 
upon  one  of  the  after-hatches. 


1 48     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"Me?"  stammered  Tom. 

"He's  going  to  make  you  first  mate,"  said 
Archer,  "and  give  you  ten  thousand  dollars — go 
ahead." 

"What?"  said  Tom. 

"That's  the  way  they  do  in  the  Dick  Dauntless 
Series]  go  ahead — beat  it!" 

Tom  followed  the  officer  forward  and  up  those 
awful  steps  which  led  to  the  holy  of  holies  where 
the  master  of  the  ship  held  his  autocratic  sway. 

The  captain  sat  in  a  sumptuously  furnished 
cabin,  and  Tom  stood  before  him,  holding  his  cap 
in  one  hand,  clutching  his  long,  starched  sleeve 
with  the  other,  and  greatly  awed  at  the  surround- 
ings. 

"You  said  something  about  understanding 
wireless,"  said  the  captain.  "Do  you  think  you 
could  be  of  assistance  to  the  operator?" 

"I  ain't — I'm  not  an  operator,"  stammered 
Tom,  "but  I  know  the  American  code  and  the  In- 
ternational code  and  some  of  the  International 
abbreviations.  I  can  send  and  receive  with  my 
own  instrument,  but  it's  a  kind  of — not  exactly  a 
toy,  but " 

"Hmm.  What  I  mean  is,  could  you  work 
under  the  operator's  direction,  so  that  he  could 


ACCORDING   TO  THE  ALARM   CLOCK  DOWN   IN  THE  STORE-ROOM,   I   GUESS 
YOU'RE   RIGHT." 

Page  144 


A  NEW  JOB  149 

get  a  little  sleep  now  and  then?  He'd  sleep  right 
in  the  wireless  room." 

Tom  hesitated. 

"I  don't — I  don't  know  if  I  should  say,  Aye, 
aye,  sir — I  hear  some  of  'em  doin'  that,"  said 
Tom  awkwardly. 

"You  mean,  yes,  you  can?"  said  the  captain, 
with  the  faintest  suggestion  of  a  smile. 

"Yes,  I — as  long  as  he's  right  there  with  me — 
yes,  sir,  I  think  I  could." 

"Well,  then,  you  go  down  there  now,  and  I'll 
notify  the  steward." 

Tom  half  turned,  then  hesitated,  clutching  his 
sleeve  tighter.    "I — I  got  to  thank  you,"  said  he. 

The  captain  nodded.  "All  right;  keep  your 
mouth  shut,  do  your  best,  don't  make  mistakes, 
and  remember  we're  at  war.  And  maybe  we'll 
have  to  thank  you,"  he  added. 

"It's — it's  helping  in  the  war,  isn't  it?"  Tom 
asked. 

The  captain  nodded.  For  a  moment  Tom  had 
a  wild  notion  of  asking  whether  he  might  con- 
tinue in  the  wireless  room  when  the  ship  was 
taken  over  for  regular  transport  service,  but  he 
did  not  dare. 

Those  who  saw  him  as  he  went  back  along  the 


150    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

deck  saw  only  the  stolid-looking,  awkward  young 
fellow  in  the  stiff  white  jacket  three  sizes  too  large 
for  him  who  had  come  to  be  a  familiar  figure 
about  the  ship.  And  they  did  not  Know  that  the 
heart  of  Tom  Slade  was  beating  again  with  hope 
and  joy  just  as  it  had  beat  when  he  had  listened  to 
Mr.  Temple  and  when  he  stood  looking  down 
from  the  office  window  into  Barrel  Alley.  And 
if  his  hopes  and  triumphs  should  be  dashed  again, 
they  would  not  know  that  either    .    .    . 

On  the  deck  he  met  Mr.  Conne. 

"Well,  I  see  the  captain  beat  me  to  it,"  said  he. 
"I  was  thinking  of  working  you  into  secret  serv- 
ice work,  but  never  mind,  there's  time  enough." 

"Maybe  I  won't  satisfy  them;  sometimes  I 
make  mistakes,"  said  Tom.  "I  made  a  mistake 
when  I  went  into  the  wrong  store-room,  if  it 
comes  to  that.  They  always  called  me  Bull-head, 
the  fellers  in  the  troop  did." 

Mr.  Conne  cocked  his  head  sideways,  screwed 
his  cigar  over  to  the  extreme  corner  of  his  mouth, 
and  looked  at  Tom  with  a  humorous  scrutiny. 

"Did  they?"  said  he.  "All  right,  Tommy, 
Uncle  Sam  and  I  mean  to  keep  our  eyes  on  you, 
just  the  same." 

So  at  last  the  cup  of  joy  was  full  again — and 


A  NEW  JOB  151 

that  same  night  it  overflowed.  For  as  Tom  Slade 
sat  at  the  wireless  table,  while  his  new  companion 
slept  in  his  berth  near  by,  there  jumped  before  his 
eyes  a  blue,  dazzling  spark  which  told  him  that 
some  one,  somewhere,  had  something  to  say  to 
him  across  the  water  and  through  the  black,  silent 
night. 

Quickly  he  adjusted  the  receivers  on  his  ears 
and  waited.  The  clamorous  buzzing  sound  caused 
the  other  operator  to  open  his  eyes  and  raise  his 
sleepy  head  to  his  elbow. 

Dash,  dash,  dash — dash,  dot,  dot,  dot. 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  operator  sleepily. 

"Official  business  abbreviation,"  said  Tom. 
"I'll  take  it— lie  down." 

It  was  no  more  than  right  that  he  should  take  it. 

Hold  Adolf  von  Stebel  using  passport 
Curry  if  on  board.  Tall,  black  mustache. 
Wanted  for  plotting  and  arson.     New  York. 

"Huh !"  said  the  chief  operator  sleepily.  "Ring 
for  a  cabin  boy  and  send  it  up  to  the  bridge.  Sign 
your  own  initials.     G-good-night." 


CHAPTER    XXI 

INTO   THE   DANGER   ZONE 

There  was  one  part  of  the  ship  forbidden  to 
passengers  and  all  but  forbidden  to  crew,  where 
Archibald  Archer  disported  and  which  was  a  spot 
of  fascination  to  Tom  in  his  numerous  leisure 
hours.  This  was  the  railed-off  stretch  of  deck 
astern  where  Billy  Sunday  and  the  gun  crew  held 
constant  vigil.  This  enticing  spot  was  irresistible 
to  the  ship's  boys,  and  they  lingered  at  the  rail- 
ing of  the  hallowed  precinct,  the  bolder  among 
them,  such  as  Archer,  making  flank  movements 
and  sometimes  grand  drives  through  the  rope 
fence,  there  to  stand  and  chat  until  they  were  dis- 
covered by  the  second  officer  on  his  rounds. 

The  members  of  the  gun  crew  who  were  not 
occupied  in  scanning  the  water  with  their  glasses 
were  glad  enough  to  beguile  the  tedium  of  the 
days  before  the  danger  zone  was  reached  in  ban- 
ter with  these  youngsters. 

The  next  day  after  Tom's  promotion  Archibald 
Archer  came  running  pell-mell  to  the  wireless 
room  where  he  was  reading  in  the  berth. 

152 


INTO  THE  DANGER  ZONE      153 

"A  submarine!  A  submarine!"  he  shouted  at 
the  top  of  his  voice.     "Come  ahead,  Slady!" 

The  regular  operator  did  not  seem  in  the  least 
concerned,  but  Tom,  roused  out  of  his  usual  calm, 
followed  Archer  up  the  steps  and  to  the  rope  rail- 
ing where  several  of  the  ship's  boys  were  congre- 
gated. 

"Let  him  see,"  commanded  Archer. 

Tommy  Walters  handed  the  marine  glass  to 
Tom.     "Over  there  to  the  west,"  he  said. 

"It's  just  a  periscope,"  said  Archer.  "See? 
See  it  sticking  up?" 

Looking  far  out  over  the  water,  Tom  could  see 
through  the  long  glass  a  dark,  thin  upright  object 
which  seemed  to  move  as  he  looked  at  it. 

"O-o-oh,  ye-e-es!"  he  exclaimed,  gazing  in- 
tently.    "It's  a  periscope,  sure!" 

"Look  over  there  to  the  west !"  shouted  Archer 
suddenly.     "Is  that  another  one?" 

Tom  turned  the  glass  to  the  westward,  and  sure 
enough,  there  was  another  one. 

"We're  surrounded!  There's  a  whole  fleet  of 
'em!  Oh,  joy!"  exclaimed  Archer.  "Look  there 
to  the  south!" 

Tom  looked,  and  to  his  great  excitement  there 
was  another  periscope. 


154    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"Now  turn  the  glass  upside  down,"  said 
Archer. 

Tom  did  so,  and  perceived  to  his  amazement 
that  the  periscope  stuck  out  of  the  sky  instead  of 
out  of  the  water. 

By  this  time  everybody  was  laughing,  and 
Tommy  Walters  leaned  against  the  gun,  shaking 
with  glee. 

"Now  look  on  the  other  end  of  the  glass,"  said 
Archer,  dodging  behind  a  stanchion. 

Tom,  in  bewilderment,  obeyed,  and  pulled  out 
a  match-end. 

"Tag;  you're  it,"  said  Archer  delightedly; 
"don't  throw  it  away." 

"Why  not?"  said  Tom,  laughing  sheepishly. 

"Because  you  have  to  wear  it  with  a  ribbon," 
said  the  irrepressible  Archer,  fastening  it  to 
Tom's  buttonhole  with  a  piece  of  baby  ribbon. 
"You're  easy,  Sladyl" 

"I  always  was,"  said  Tom. 

"You  should  worry,"  laughed  Walters.  "They 
all  have  to  stand  for  that." 

When  Tom  got  back  to  the  wireless  room,  Cat- 
tell,  the  operator,  looked  at  the  badge  with  a 
knowing  smile. 


INTO  THE  DANGER  ZONE       155 

"Stung,  eh?"  said  he.  "I  thought  you  were  on 
to  Archer  by  this  time." 

"It's  always  easy  to  jolly  me,"  said  Tom. 

"That's  an  old  trick,"  said  Cattell.  "Don't 
you  know  we  won't  be  in  the  danger  zone  until 
Monday?" 

"I  never  thought  about  that,"  said  Tom. 

"You're  easy,"  laughed  Cattell.  "When  we 
get  into  the  Zone,  you'll  know  it." 

And  so  Tom  found,  for  early  Monday  morn- 
ing, as  he  went  along  the  deck  on  his  way  to 
breakfast,  he  noticed  several  persons  wearing  life 
preservers.  They  looked  clumsy  and  ridiculous, 
and  if  the  occasion  had  been  less  serious  even 
Tom's  soberness  must  have  yielded  at  their  funny 
appearance. 

As  he  passed  along  he  noticed  members  of  the 
crew  in  the  life-boats  removing  the  canvas  covers, 
and  as  these  were  taken  off  he  could  see  that  the 
boats  were  already  stocked,  each  with  a  cask  and 
a  good-sized  wooden  case.  A  member  of  the  crew 
patrolled  the  rope  rail  which  shut  off  the  gun- 
crew's little  domain,  and  no  one  could  trespass 
there  now.  From  a  distance  Tom  could  see  Billy 
Sunday  fully  revealed  without  any  vestige  of  can- 
vas cover,   and  the  boys  in  khaki   scanning  the 


156    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

waters  in  every  direction  with  their  glasses.  All 
day  long  this  continued,  and  once  or  twice  when 
he  met  them  hurrying  along  the  deck  they  hardly 
recognized  him. 

Cattell,  calm  as  usual,  sat  all  day  at  the  instru- 
ment shelf  with  the  receivers  on,  and  ate  his 
luncheon  there.  Tom  forsook  his  berth,  where 
he  was  wont  to  spend  his  spare  time  reading,  and 
remained  close  to  the  telephone  where  open  con- 
nection was  kept  with  the  bridge. 

It  was  a  day  of  suspense.  Ship's  officers  hur- 
ried back  and  forth  with  serious  faces  and  looks 
of  grave  responsibility.  Twice  through  the  day 
the  emergency  drill  was  gone  through,  the  boats 
occupied  and  vacated  and  the  tackle  tested,  to  the 
dismal  voice  of  the  megaphone  on  the  bridge. 
And  as  night  came  on  the  more  constant  callings 
of  the  lookouts  from  their  wind-swept  perches 
and  the  answering  call  through  the  darkness  had 
an  ominous  and  portentous  sound  which  shook 
even  Tom's  wonted  stolidness  and  made  him  feel 
apprehensive  and  restless. 

Not  a  light  was  there  upon  the  ship  as  she 
plowed  steadily  upon  her  course,  and  little  knots 
of  people  stood  here  and  there  in  the  darkness 


INTO  THE  DANGER  ZONE        157 

looking  grotesquely  ill-shapen  in  their  cumbersome 
life-belts. 

Along  the  deck,  as  he  came  back  from  supper, 
which  had  been  served  behind  closed  port-holes 
and  with  but  a  single  dim  light,  Tom  met  Mr. 
Conne  sauntering  along  at  his  customary  gait, 
with  no  sign  of  life-belt,  but  with  his  companion- 
able cigar  dimly  visible  in  the  darkness. 

"H'lo,  Tommy,"  said  he  cheerily. 

Something,  perhaps  the  tenseness  which  had 
gripped  the  spirits  of  all  on  board  and  affected 
even  him,  prompted  him  to  pause  for  a  moment's 
chat  with  Tom.  He  leaned  against  the  rail  in  the 
black  solitude,  his  easy  manner  in  strange  con- 
trast to  the  portentous  darkness  and  rising  wind, 
and  the  general  atmosphere  of  suspense. 

"Where's  your  life-belt,  Tommy?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  one,"  said 
Tom.  "I'll  grab  one  if  there's  one  handy  when 
the  time  comes." 

"Ain't  you  'fraid  old  Uncle  Neptune'll  get 
you?" 

"I've  risked  my  life  before  this,"  said  Tom; 
"I  just  as  soon  put  one  on,  though,"  he  added; 
"only  I  never  thought  about  it." 

"Hmmm,"   said   Mr.    Conne,   looking   at  him 


158     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

sharply.     "There  was  a  fellow  last  trip  put  one 
on  before  we  got  outside  Sandy  Hook,"  he  added. 

"Why  don't  you  wear  one?"  Tom  asked. 

"Me?    Oh,  I  don't  know— I  don't  think  I  look 
'real  well  in  a  cork  sash.  ...  I  bet  you  wouldn't 
have   your   photograph   taken   in    one    of   those 
things,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"Is  Mr.  von  Stebel  all  right?"  Tom  ventured 
to  ask. 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  all  right;  but  glum  as  a  rainy 
Sunday." 

"Did  he  have  any  papers?"  Tom  asked,  en- 
couraged by  the  detective's  agreeable  manner. 

"Well,  he  had  a  passport.  Of  course,  it  was 
forged.  He  had  a  trolley  transfer  from  Wynd- 
ham,  Ohio,  'bout  a  hundred  miles  west  of  Cleve- 
land, and,  let's  see,  a  hotel  bill  of  the  Hotel 
Bishop  in  Cleveland.  He  has  a  suite  there,  I 
guess.  I'd  like  to  rummage  through  his  trunk. 
I  tripped  him  up  two  or  three  times,  enough  to 
find  that  he's  got  a  lot  of  information  about  army 
places.  Seems  to  have  more  of  it  in  his  head  than 
he  had  in  his  pockets." 

"You'll  take  him  back,  won't  you?"  Tom  asked. 

"Yes,  or  maybe  send  him  back  on  the  first  ship 
across.    They'll  turn  him  inside  out  in  New  York. 


INTO  THE  DANGER  ZONE        159 

I  don't  believe  he'll  leave  you  anything  in  his  will, 

Tommy." 

Tom  laughed.  "It  would  be  bad  if  he  got  to 
Germany,  wouldn't  it?"  he  asked.  "I  mean  with 
all  the  information  he's  got." 

"It  would  be  worse  than  bad,"  said  Mr.  Conne. 
"It  might  be  disastrous." 

He  moved  on,  clinging  to  the  hand-rail  along 
the  stateroom  tier  to  steady  himself,  for  the  wind 
was  rising  to  a  gale  and  driving  the  sea  in  black, 
mountains  which  burst  in  spray  upon  the  deck, 
wetting  Tom  through  and  through  as  he  scurried 
back  to  the  wireless  room  for  the  night's  long 
vigil. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

SOS 

Bzzz    .     .     .    bzzz,  bzzz,  bzzz 

bzzz  .  .  .  bz,  bz,  bz,  bz  .  .  .  bz  .  .  . 
.  .  .  bzzz,  bz,  bz  c  .  .  bz,  bzzz  .  .  . 
bzzz,  bz,  bzzz,  bzzz. 

"What  is  it?"  Tom  asked,  standing  in  the  door- 
way of  the  wireless  room  and  looking  at  the  black 
outline  of  Cattell's  form  as  he  sat  at  the  instru- 
ment shelf.  He  could  hardly  see  Cattell  for  the 
darkness.  It  seemed  darker,  even,  than  it  did  out 
on  deck.  Some  small  object  fell,  and  the  sound 
seemed  emphasized  by  the  darkness. 

"Huh,  there  goes  my  paperweight  again,"  said 
Cattell;  "it's  getting  rough,  isn't  it?" 

Tom  groped  around  and  found  it;  then,  stand- 
ing, grasped  the  door-jamb  again. 

"I  had  to  grab  the  hand-rail  coming  along," 
he  said;  "do  you  want  to  turn  in?" 

"No;  I  couldn't  sleep,  anyway;  I  might  as  well 
be  here." 

"What  was  that  you  took?"  Tom  asked,  as  he 

160 


SOS  161 

clambered  up  into  the  berth  and  settled  himself 
comfortably.    He,  too,  could  not  sleep. 

"Same  old  stuff,"  said  Cattell;  "To  the  day. 
They're  drinking  each  other's  health  again." 

"I  got  that  a  couple  of  times,"  said  Tom; 
"what  is  it,  anyway?" 

Cattell  reached  out  and  pushed  the  door  shut. 
"Must  be  pretty  chizzly  for  those  fellows  up  in 
the  crow's-nest,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  it's  queer  to  hear  them  calling  in  the 
dark,  isn't  it?" 

"You  didn't  see  any  lights  in  the  stateroom 
ports  as  you  came  along,  did  you?"  Cattell  asked. 

"Nope;  there's  a  sailor  marching  back  and 
forth  outside  along  the  starboard  tier.  Every- 
thing's as  dark  as  pitch." 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  listening 
to  the  rising  wind  and  to  the  sound  of  the  spray 
as  it  broke  over  the  deck.  Cattell  folded  a 
despatch  blank  and  stuffed  it  in  the  crack  of  the 
door  to  stop  its  rattling. 

"It's  comfortable  in  here,  anyway,"  said  Tom; 
"it's  kind  of  like  camping." 

Again  there  was  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
wind  outside  and  the  occasional  voice  of  the  look- 
out, thin  and  spent  as  from  another  world,  and 


1 62     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

the  scarcely  audible,  long-drawn-out  answer  from 
the  bridge. 

"  'To  the  day,'  "  said  Cattell,  sticking  his  feet 
upon  the  shelf,  "means  to  the  day  the  Kaiser  will 
own  the  earth — emperor  of  the  world.  In  the 
German  navy,  whenever  they  take  a  drink  they 
always  say,  'To  the  day.'  The  day  that  poor 
Austrian  guy  was  murdered  in  Serbia — you  know, 
that  prince — and  the  Kaiser  saw  his  chance  to 
start  the  ball  filing,  all  the  high  dinkums  in  the 
German  navy  had  a  jambouree,  and  some  old  gink 
— von  Somebody  or  other — said:  'Now,  to  the 
day.' 

"Well,  it  got  to  be  a  kind  of  password  or  slo- 
gan, as  you  might  say.  If  a  German  spy  wants 
to  let  another  German  know  that  he's  all  right, 
he  uses  a  sentence  with  those  three  words  in.  And 
the  sub-commanders  are  all  the  time  slinging  it 
around  the  ocean — testing  their  instruments  some- 
times, I  dare  say.  It  don't  do  any  harm,  I  sup- 
pose.    Talk's  cheap." 

"I  wondered  what  it  meant,"  said  Tom. 

"That's  all  it  means.  When  you  hear  that 
you'll  know  some  sub-captain  is  taking  a  drink  of 
wine  or  something.  When  the  Emden  captured 
an  English  ship  a  couple  of  years  ago,  it  happened 


SOS  163 

there  was  a  nice,  gentlemanly  German  spy  on 
board  the  Britisher.  The  German  captain  was 
just  going  to  pack  him  off  with  the  others  as  a 
prisoner  when  he  said  something  with  those  three 
words  in  it.  The  German  commander  under- 
stood, and  they  didn't  take  any  of  his  things,  but 
just  let  him  stay  among  the  English,  and  the  Eng- 
lish weren't  any  the  wiser." 

"Huh,"  said  Tom. 

Again  there  was  silence. 

"I  think  the  other  operator  is  all  right,  don't 
you?"  Tom  asked. 

"Sure — is  or  was.  He  may  have  been  killed 
down  there  and  thrown  overboard.  He  was 
straight  as  a  bee-line.  You  put  Conne  on  the 
right  track,  all  right." 

"Do  you  think  they'll  ever  find  out  about  the 
rest  of  it?"  Tom  asked. 

Cattell  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Search  me" 
he  said. 

All  night  long  the  wind  blew  and  the  swell 
broke  noisily  against  the  ship  and  beat  over  the 
rail.  At  intervals,  when  Tom  climbed  down  and 
stumbled  over  to  open  the  door  for  a  glimpse  of 
the  sullen  night,  the  slanting  rain  blew  in  his  face, 
and  he  closed  the  door  again  with  difficulty.     It 


1 64    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

would  have  been  a  ticklish  business  to  make  one's 
way  along  the  deck  then,  he  thought. 

It  was  a  couple  of  hours  before  dawn,  and 
Tom,  lulled  by  the  darkness,  had  fallen  into  a 
doze,  when  he  was  roused  by  a  sudden  shock  and 
sat  upright  clutching  the  side  of  the  berth. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said.  "Are  you  there,  Cat- 
tell?" 

Afterward,  when  he  recalled  that  moment,  and 
tried  to  describe  the  shock,  he  said  it  seemed  as 
if  the  vessel  were  shaking  herself,  as  a  dog  shakes 
himself.  The  crash,  which  he  had  so  often  read 
about,  he  did  not  hear  at  all;  no  sound  except  the 
heedless  wind  and  the  restless,  beating  sea.  It 
merely  seemed  as  if  the  mighty  ship  were  cold  and 
had  shuddered. 

"It  ain't  anything,  is  it?"  he  asked,  neverthe- 
less climbing  down  from  his  berth. 

Then  he  became  aware  of  something  which 
startled  him  more  than  the  shock  had  done.  The 
steady  throbbing  which  had  been  continuously 
present  since  that  midnight  when  the  ship  first 
sailed,  had  ceased.  The  absolute  stillness  under 
his  feet  seemed  strange  and  ominous. 

"It  ain't — anything  wrong — is  it?"  he  repeated. 

"I  think  we're  struck,"  said  Cattell  quietly. 


SOS  165 

For  a  moment  Tom  breathed  heavily,  standing 
just  where  he  was. 

"Can  I  turn  on  the  light?"  he  asked.  The 
groping  darkness  seemed  to  unnerve  him  more 
than  anything  else  now — that  and  the  awful  still- 
ness under  his  feet. 

"No — put  the  flashlight  on  the  clock  and  see 
what  time  it  is." 

There  were  sounds  outside  now,  and  amid  them 
the  doleful  distant  voice  of  the  megaphone. 

"Not  three  yet,"  said  Tom.  .  .  .  "You — 
you  sending  out  the  call?" 

"Yup." 

A  man  in  oilskins,  carrying  a  lantern,  threw 
open  the  door.  The  rain  was  streaming  from  his 
garments  and  his  hat. 

"We're  struck  amidships,"  he  said. 

The  telephone  from  the  bridge  rang. 

"Answer  that;  find  out  where  we  are,"  said 
Cattell. 

As  Tom  repeated  the  latitude  and  longitude  the 
urgent  "S  O  S"  went  forth  into  the  night.  Lights 
were  now  visible  outside,  and  the  emergency  gong 
could  be  heard  ringing,  mingled  with  the  hollow, 
far-off  voice  of  the  megaphone. 

"Better   beat   it   to   your   post,"    said    Cattell 


1 66     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

calmly,  as  his  finger  played  the  key.  "I'll  take 
care  of  this."  He  did  not  seem  at  all  excited,  and 
his  quiet  manner  gave  Tom  self-control. 

He  went  out  and  along  the  deck  where  the 
drenching  rain  glistened  in  the  fresh  glare  of  the 
lights.  Once,  twice,  he  slipped  and  went  sprawl- 
ing to  the  rail.  He  wondered  whether  it  was 
from  the  roughness  of  the  sea  or  because  the  ves- 
sel was  tilting  over. 

All  about  hurried  people  with  life  preservers 
on,  some  sprawling  on  the  deck  like  himself,  in 
their  haste.  One  man  said  the  ship  had  been 
struck  above  the  waterline  and  would  float. 
Others  said  she  was  settling;  others  that  she  was 
sinking  fast. 

Tom's  emergency  post  was  at  port  davits  P  27 
on  the  promenade  deck.  He  knew  what  to  do, 
for  he  had  gone  through  the  emergency  drill  twice 
a  day,  but  the  tumultuous  sea  and  the  darkness 
and  the  cold,  driving  rain  disconcerted  him. 

Reaching  the  rail  by  the  life-boat  davits,  he  saw 
at  once  that  the  ship  was  canting  far  over.  The 
life-boat,  which  in  the  drills  swung  close  to  the 
vessel's  side,  now  hung  far  away.  It  was  already 
filled  and  being  lowered. 

Falling  in  line  with  several  of  the  crew,  Tom 


SOS  167 

grasped  the  rope,  and  was  surprised  at  the  ease 
with  which  the  boat  was  lowered  by  means  of  the 
multiplied  leverage  of  the  block  and  falls.  In  the 
drills,  they  had  manned  but  never  lowered  the 
boats. 

"Don't  try  that,"  some  one  called  from  the  de- 
scending boat.  "You  can't  make  it,  and  we're 
crowded."  The  voice  sounded  strangely  clear. 
"Better  go  up  on  deck,"  another  voice  said. 

Tom  thought  that  some  one  must  be  trying  to 
reach  the  descending  boat  from  one  of  the  port- 
holes below. 

Then  the  rope  slackened  and  an  officer  called, 
"All  right?" 

"All  right,"  some  one  answered;  "but  she  can't 
ride  this." 

Tom  pressed  close  to  the  rail  and  looked  down 
through  the  blinding  rain.  He  could  see  only 
dark  figures  and  a  lantern  bobbing  frantically. 

"Pull  her  round  crossways  to  the  swell  and  get 
away  from  the  side — quick!"  the  officer  in  charge 
called. 

"She's  half  full  of  water,"  answered  a  voice 
amid  the  wind  and  storm. 

Men  came  rushing  from  the  starboard  deck 
where  they  said  the  boats  could  not  be  launched 


1 68     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

because  of  the  angle  of  the  ship's  side  which  pre- 
vented them  from  swinging  free.  They  were  obe- 
dient enough,  but  greatly  alarmed  when  told  that 
they  must  wait  their  turn. 

The  few  army  men  on  board  were  models  of 
efficiency  and  quiet  discipline,  herding  back  the 
excited  passengers  and  trying  to  keep  them  away 
from  the  rail,  for  the  slant  of  the  deck  was  now 
almost  perpendicular. 

"Help  those  people  launch  that  hatch  if  they 
want  to,"  said  an  officer  to  Tom. 

Acting  on  the  suggestion,  a  dozen  or  more  men 
ranged  themselves  around  the  hatch  and  Tom 
helped  to  lift  it,  while  others  clustered  about, 
ready  to  climb  upon  it. 

"You'll  have  to  clear  away  from  here,"  said  an 
officer;  "sixteen  is  the  limit  for  one  of  those 
hatches.  There  are  seven  more."  Evidently  the 
rescuing  capacity  of  the  hatches  had  already  been 
ascertained. 

The  frightened  people  hurried  along  through 
the  driving  rain  and  the  darkness,  some  of  them 
slipping  on  the  streaming  deck  and  sliding  pell- 
mell  to  the  rail,  which  broke  away  with  the  im- 
pact in  one  place  and  precipitated  several  scream- 
ing persons  into  the  ocean. 


SOS  169 

Hurriedly  Tom  counted  those  around  the  hatch 
and  found  that  the  officer  had  evidently  included 
him  among  the  sixteen  who  should  man  it. 

"Do  you  mean  for  me  to  go  too?"  he  asked,  in 
his  usual  dull  manner. 

"You  might  as  well,"  the  officer  answered 
brusquely. 

The  great  vessel  had  lost  all  its  pride  and  dig- 
nity, and  seemed  a  poor,  reeling,  spiritless  thing. 
The  deck  was  deserted  save  for  the  little  group 
about  the  hatch  who  strove  with  might  and  main 
to  launch  this  last  poor  medium  of  rescue.  The 
abrupt  pitch  of  the  deck  made  their  frantic  efforts 
seem  all  but  hopeless,  and  walking,  even  standing, 
was  quite  out  of  the  question.  Tom  could  feel 
the  ship  heeling  over  beneath  him. 

Even  the  cheerily  authoritative  voice  of  the 
megaphone  up  on  the  bridge  had  now  ceased,  and 
there  was  no  reassuring  reminder  of  life  there — 
nothing  but  the  black.outline  of  the  trestled  struc- 
ture, slanting  at  a  dreadful  angle  with  the  water 
pouring  from  it. 

Tom  and  his  distracted  companions  were  evi- 
dently the  last  on  board. 

The  rail  was  now  so  low  that  the  plunge  of  the 
hatch  would  not  be  very  hazardous  at  all  events, 


170    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

for  the  seething  waters  beat  over  the  deck  now 
and  again,  rolling  up  as  on  a  beach  at  the  seashore 
and  adding  their  ominous  chill  to  Tom's  already 
chilled  body. 

Out  of  the  turmoil  of  the  sea  sounds  rose,  some 
the  even'  tones  of  command,  sounding  strangely 
out  of  place  in  the  storm ;  others  which  he  recog- 
nized with  a  shudder  as  the  last  frightful  gasps 
of  drowning  persons-. 

In  a  minute — two  minutes — he  would  be 
plunged  into  that  seething  brine  where  he  still 
might  hear  but  could  not  see.  Instinctively  he 
increased  his  exertions  with  this  makeshift  raft 
which,  if  they  could  but  cling  to  it  till  the  sea 
subsided,  might  bear  them  up  until  succor  came. 

As  soon  as  the  hatch  was  raised,  it  began  to 
slide  away,  and  those  who  had  lifted  it  jumped 
upon  it,  clinging  as  best  they  could. 

From  somewhere  out  of  the  darkness  a  man 
came  rushing  pell-mell  for  this  precarious  refuge. 
As  he  jumped  upon  it,  clutching  frantically  at  the 
moulding  around  its  edge,  Tom  stepped  off. 

The  angle  of  the  careening  ship  was  now  so 
steep  that  he  could  not  stand  upon  the  deck,  but 
as  he  slipped  he  caught  hold  of  a  vent  pipe  and  so 
managed  to  reach  the  stateroom  tier  where  all  the 


SOS  171 

doors  hung  open  like  the  covers  of  so  many  in- 
verted cigar  boxes,  flapping  in  the  wind  and  rain. 

The  hatch  had  slid  to  the  deck's  edge  and  was 
held  precariously  by  the  doubtful  strength  of  the 
straining  rail. 

"Get  on!"  one  of  the  men  called  to  Tom. 
"Hurry  up!" 

"The  officer  said  only  sixteen,"  he  answered. 

"Are  you  crazy?"  another  man  called.  "Get 
on  while  you  can!" 

"He  said  only  sixteen,"  Tom  called  back  im- 
passively. 

"It's  every  man  for  himself  now  and  no  or- 
ders !"  shouted  another.  Perhaps  it  was  the  man 
who  had  usurped  Tom's  place. 

"He  said  only " 

The  rest  of  his  answer  was  drowned  by  the 
crashing  of  the  rail  as  the  hatch  went  plunging 
from  the  deck  into  the  black  turmoil  below.  The 
last  they  saw  of  him,  he  was  clinging  to-  one  of 
the  flapping  doors,  his  foot  braced  against  a  cable 
cleat,  his  shock  of  hair  blowing  wildly  this  way 
and  that,  the  rain  streaming  from  his  face  and 
soaking  clothes-. 

He  did  not  look  at  all  like  a  hero,  nor  even 
like  the  picture  of  a  scout  on  the  cover  of  a  boys' 
magazine.     .    .    . 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

ROY  BLAKELEY  KEEPS  STILL FOR  A  WONDER 

"Yes,  that  was  the  one  trouble  with  Tom  Slade 
— he  couldn't  obey  orders." 

"I  think  you're  rather  severe,"  said  Mrs.  Ells- 
worth. 

"He  had  his  work  all  cut  out  for  him  here," 
persisted  her  husband  relentlessly.  "He  knew  the 
part  the  scouts  were  supposed  to  play  in  the  war, 
but  he  thought  he  knew  more  than  I  did  about  it. 
He  gave  me  his  promise,  and  then  he  broke  his 
word.     He  flunked  on  his  first  duty." 

Mr.  Ellsworth  pushed  his  coffee  cup  from  him 
and  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  dining  table 
in  a  very  conclusive  manner. 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke.  The  young  man 
in  the  soldier's  uniform  gazed  into  his  empty  cup 
and  said  nothing.  Then  he  looked  up  at  Mrs. 
Ellsworth  as  if  he  hoped  she  would  answer  her 
husband.  Of  the  four  who  sat  there  in  the  Ells- 
worths' pleasant  little  dining  room,  Roy  Blakeley 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

172 


ROY  BLAKELEY  KEEPS  STILL    173 

"He'll  make  a  good  soldier,  anyway,"  he  said. 

"A  good  soldier  is  one  who  obeys  orders,"  said 
Mr.  Ellsworth,  tightening  his  lips  uncompromis- 
ingly. "Tom  Slade's  war  duties  were  very  clearly 
mapped  out  for  him.  And,  besides,  he  gave  me 
his  promise;  you  heard  him,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Roy  reluctantly. 

"All  I  asked  of  him,"  continued  the  scoutmas- 
ter, "was  to  do  his  bit  as  a  scout  with  the  Colors, 
till  he  was  of  military  age.  He  gave  me  his  prom- 
ise— you  heard  him — and  then  he  desert " 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,"  said  Mrs.  Ellsworth; 
"that's  a  dreadful  word!" 

The  young  man  in  uniform  bit  his  lip  and 
started  to  move  his  chair  back;  then,  as  if  uncer- 
tain what  to  do,  remained  where  he  was. 

"A  promise  is  a  promise,"  said  the  scoutmas- 
ter. "You  can't  build  up  anything  good  on  the 
foundation  of  a  broken  promise." 

"Don't  you  think  a  person  might  be  justified  in 
breaking  a  promise?"  said  the  soldier  diffidently. 

"No,  sir;  not  if  it  is  humanly  possible  to  keep 
it. — Besides,  Tom  must  have  had  to  lie  to  get  into 
the  army." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"It  was  dreadful  to  think  of  his  pawning  his 


174    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

Gold  Cross,"  said  Mrs.  Ellsworth;  "if  he  had 
only  kept  his  word  and  waited  a  little  while " 

uHe  would  never  have  had  that  Cross  to  pawn 
if  he  hadn't  been  brave,"  said  Roy,  flushing 
slightly. 

"Good  for  you,  Roy!"  said  the  young  soldier. 

Mr.  Ellsworth  laughed  pleasantly  at  Roy's  un- 
shakable faith  in  his  absent  friend. 

"That's  right,  Roy,"  said  Mrs.  Ellsworth,  with 
a  very  sweet  smile.     "You  stand  up  for  him." 

"If  I  can't  stand  up  for  him,  I'll  keep  still," 
said  Roy. 

"Well,  then,  I  guess  you'll  have  to  keep  still," 
laughed  Mr.  Ellsworth,  "for  there  isn't  much 
defense.  I  did  all  I  could  for  Tom,"  he  added, 
more  soberly.  "If  his  three  years  of  scouting 
didn't  teach  him  to  keep  his  word  with  me  as  I 
always  kept  mine  with  him,  it  must  have  been-  to 
no  purpose.  He  might  have  waited  a  little,  kept 
his  solemn  promise,  and  gone  into  the  army  under 
the  same  honorable  conditions  as  you  did,"  he 
said,  turning  to  the  soldier;  "and  we  should  all 
have " 

"What's  the  matter?"  exclaimed  Roy. 

Roscoe  Bent  had  thrown  his  chair  back  and 
without  so  much  as  excusing  himself  had  stridden. 


THE    LAST   THEY   SAW   OF   TOM.  HKWAS   CLINGING   TO   ONE   OF   THE   FLAP- 
PING   DOORS,    HIS    FOOT    BRACED   AGAINST   A   CABLE   CLEAT. 

Page  174 


ROY  BLAKELEY  KEEPS  STILL    175 

over  to  the  bay  window,  where  he  stood  holding 
the  curtain  aside  and  looking  out. 

"What  is  it — reveille?"  the  scoutmaster 
laughed. 

"May  I  smoke  a  cigarette?"  Roscoe  asked 
nervously. 

"Uncle  Sam  hasn't  cured  you  of  that,  has  he?" 
Mr.  Ellsworth  laughed.     "Sure;  go  ahead." 

The  soldier's  abrupt  movement  seemed  to  ter- 
minate the  little  after-dinner  ch#t,  and  Mrs.  Ells- 
worth, bent  on  other  duties  perhaps,  or  possibly 
foreseeing  that  her  husband  wished  to  "talk  busi- 
ness," arose  also  and  left  the  three  to  themselves. 

"I — er — don't  smoke  as  much  as  I  did,"  said 
Roscoe;  "but  sometimes — er — a  cigarette  sort  of 
pulls  you  together.  What — what  were  you  going 
to  say?" 

He  returned  and  sat  down  again  at  the  table. 

"Why,  nothing  in  particular,"  said  Mr.  Ells- 
worth, "except  this:  I  want  you  to  drive  home  to 
these  boys  of  mine  this  lesson  of  obedience,  this 
necessity  for  respecting  a  promise  above  all  things, 
and  of  obeying  an  order  from  one  whom  they've 
promised  to  obey.    You  get  me?" 

"I— I  think  I  do." 

"This  meeting  which  we're  holding  in  conjunc- 


176     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

tion  with  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  to-morrow  night  is  the 
last  one  before  I  go  away  myself.  When  I  heard 
you  were  going  to  be  home  from  camp  over  the 
week-end,  it  just  popped  into-  my  head  that  I'd 
ask  you  to  come  around  and  give  the  boys  a  spiel. 
They've  all  got  a  great  admiration  for  you,  Ros- 
coe.  I  suppose  it's  because  your  uniform  becomes 
you  so  well.  You  make  a  pretty  fine-looking  sol- 
dier.   Anybody  tell  you  that?" 

"Miss. — Margaret  Ellison,  in  the  Temple 
Camp  office,  was  kind  enough  to  hint  as  much," 
admitted  Roscoe  humorously. 

He  did  look  pretty  handsome  in  his'  new  khaki. 
He  had  a  figure  as  straight  as  an  arrow  and  a 
way  of  holding  his  head  and  carrying  himself  with 
the  true  soldier  air.  Besides,  his  blond,  wavy 
hair,  always  attractive,  seemed  to  h.armonize  with 
his  brown  uniform,  and  his  blue*  eyes  had  a  kind 
of  dancing  recklessness  in  them. 

"All  the  boys  have  promised  to  be  there — the 
Methodist  Troop,  the  East  Bridgeboro  Troop, 
and  mine " 

"Which  is  the  best  of  all,"  put  in  Roy. 

Roscoe  laughed  merrily. 

"We'll  have  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  boys  and  three 
full  troops  as  well." 


ROY  BLAKELEY  KEEPS  STILL     177 

"Except  for  Tom,"  said  Roy. 

"We  won't  talk  of  Tom  any  more,"  said  Mr. 
Ellsworth.  "That's  a  tale  that  is  told.  It's  a 
closed  book." 

"It  isn't  with  me,"  said  Roy  bravely. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  the  boys — there'll  be  some 
girls  there,  too,  if  they  want  to  come " 

"Oh,  joy!"  Roy  commented. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  bucking  up,"  said  the 
scoutmaster.  "I  want  you  to  tell  the  boys,"  he 
went  on  to  Roscoe,  "a  little  about  life  down  in 
Camp  Dix.     Tell  them  how  you  enlisted." 

"I  didn't  enlist — I  was  drafted." 

"Well,  it's  much  the  same — you  were  glad  to 
be  drafted.  There  were  a  whole  lot  of  you  fel- 
lows who  didn't  get  around  to  enlisting  who  were 
glad  enough  when  the  call  came.  You  didn't  need 
any  urging,  I'll  bet." 

"N-no,"  said  Roscoe. 

"And  so  I  want  you  to  tell  these  scouts,  just  in 
your  own  way,  what  it  means  to  be  a  soldier. 
Dwell  on  the  sense  of  honor  which  this  fine  mili- 
tary discipline  gives.  Tell  them  what  is  meant  by 
a  parole,  and  what  it  means  to  break  a  parole — 
which  is  just  breaking  your  promise.  I  don't  care 
so  much  about  the  guns  and  swords  just  now — I 


i78     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

mean  as  far  as  to-morrow  night  is  concerned.  But 
I'd  like  these  scouts  to  know  that  there's  some- 
thing besides  fighting  to  being  a  soldier — a  real 
one.  I'd  like  them  to  know  that  a  soldier's  word 
can  be  trusted,  his  promise  depended  on.  If  any- 
thing that  has  happened  in  my  troop,"  he  added 
significantly,  "has  given  them  a  wrong  impression 
— you  correct  that  impression.     See?" 

"I'll  try  to." 

"That's  it.  You  know,  Roscoe,  most  boys,  and 
some  scouts  even,  think  that  a  soldier  is  just  a  fel- 
low who  shoots  and  makes  raids  and  storms  forti- 
fications and  all  that.  There's  many  a  boy  thinks 
he  can  be  a  soldier  by  just  running  off  to  the  war. 
But  that's  where  he's  got  a  couple  of  more  thinks 
coming,  as  Roy  here  would  say.  Uncle  Sam  wants 
soldiers,  but  he  doesn't  want  to  be  lied  to  and 
cheated " 

Roy  winced. 

"I  want  you  to  give  them  just  a  little  off-hand, 
heart-to-heart  talk  about  the  other  end  of  it — how 
a  'soldier's  wealth  is  honor,'  as  old  What's-his- 
name,  the  poet,  says." 

"I'll  try  to,"  said  Roscoe. 

"Then  there's  another  thing.  I'm  off  with  the 
engineering  corps  myself  pretty  soon.     And  my 


ROY  BLAKELEY  KEEPS  STILL     179 

three  patrols  are  going  to  feel  pretty  bad  to  see 
me  go,  too.    That  so,  Roy?" 

"You  bet  it  is,"  said  Roy. 

"Tell  them  they  ought  to  be  proud  So  see  me 
go.  They'll  listen  to  you,  because  you're  a  regu- 
lar A-One,  all-around  soldier,  you're  nearer  to 
their  own  age,  and  you're  an  outsider.  Tell  them 
how  tickled  you  were  to  get  your  name  down  on 
that  little  old  roll  of  honor " 

Roscoe  rose  suddenly. 

"Don't — please  don't,"  said  he. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Mr.  Ellsworth  asked. 

"Nothing — only — I  have  to  go  home  now.  I — 
I  understand,  and  I'll  do  it — I'll — I'm  not  much 
on  speechmaking,  but  I  know  what  you  mean, 
and " 

"That's  right,  you  get  the  idea,"  Mr.  Ells- 
worth exclaimed,  rising  and  slapping  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "I  won't  keep  you  any  later,  for  I 
know  they're  waiting  for  you  around  in  Rockwood 
Place." 

"I'll  only  have  this  one  night  at  home,"  said 
Roscoe. 

"And  I'll  bet  they're  proud  of  you  round  there, 
too,"  Mr.  Ellsworth  added,  as  he  followed  them 
into  the  front  hall.    "I've  got  three  full  patrols — 


180    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

that  is,  two,  I  mean;  and  Connie  Bennett  expects 
to  dig  up  another  boy  for  us.  Roy  refused  the 
job.  Never  had  a  kid  of  my  own,  but  I'd  like  to 
have  a  soldier  boy  like  you." 

He  helped  Roscoe  on  with  his  big  army  ulster, 
and  stood  with  a  hand  on  either  of  Roscoe's 
shoulders. 

"You  tell  your  father  when  you  get  home  that 
I  congratulate  him.  Providence  did  him  a  good 
turn,  as  we  scouts  say." 

"I  dare  say  somebody  or  other  did  him  a  good 
turn,"  said  Roscoe,  almost  in  a  tone  of  disgust. 

"Tell  him  I  said  he  ought  to  be  proud  to  fur- 
nish Uncle  Sam  with  such  a  soldier." 

"Humph,"  said  Roscoe,  in  the  same  mood;  "it's 
a  question  who  furnished  Uncle  Sam  with  the 
soldier." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mr.  Ellsworth, 
slightly  puzzled. 

"Oh,  nothing  in  particular — I  guess.  I'm  kind 
of  tired— I'll  be — glad  when  I  get  in  bed.    .    .    ." 


CHAPTER   XXIV 


A    SOLDIER  S    HONOR 


As  the  two  walked  along  the  dark  street  to- 
gether, Roscoe,  in  his  long  military  coat,  seemed 
taller  than  he  really  was  and  the  boy  at  his  side 
seemed  small  and  young  to  him. 

He  knew  Roy  only  as  everybody  in  a  small  city 
knows  everybody  else,  but  Roy  knew  Roscoe  as 
every  boy  in  Bridgeboro  knew  the  soldiers  whom 
the  town  had  given  to  the  Colors.  He  was  proud 
to  have  been  at  that  little  supper  party,  and  he 
was  proud  now  to  be  walking  along  at  Roscoe's 
side* 

"Gee,  I'd  like  to  come  down  to  Camp  Dix!" 
he  said. 

"Pretty  hard  for  outsiders  to  get  in  the  place 
now,"  said  Roscoe,  "unless  you're  a  wife,  a 
mother,  or  a  sweetheart." 

"I'm  only  a  boy  sprout,"  said  Roy,  his  wonted 
buoyancy  persisting.  "I  wouldn't  go  where  I'm 
not  welcome.  .  .  .  They  might  think  I  was  a 
German  spy,  hey?" 

181 


1 82     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

Roscoe  looked  down  at  him  and  laughed.  Roy 
amused  him,  and  he  felt  a  little  twinge  of  sym- 
pathy for  him,  too. 

"Ellsworth's  pretty  strict,  isn't  he?"  he  said. 
"I  mean  sort  of — he's  got  pretty  strict  ideas,"  he 
added,  anxious  not  to  say  too  much  in  criticism. 

Roy  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said: 
"Gee,  I  hate  to  see  that  vacant  place  in  the  Elk 
Patrol  filled  up !  I  know  a  lot  of  fellows  who'd 
be  glad  to  come  in,  but  I  just  can't  ask  them. 
That's  what  he  meant  when  he  said  I  wouldn't 
take  the  job.  Maybe  you  don't  understand  what 
I  mean,  but  as  long  as  that  place  isn't  filled,  it 
seems  like  a — kind  of  as  if  it  was  in  memory  of 
Tom — as  you  might  say.  It's  a  crazy  idea,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Roscoe  looked  at  him  marching  along  with  his 
scout  hat  set  jauntily  on  the  back  of  his  curly 
head  in  a  way  that  was  characteristic  of  him. 

"I  don't  see  anything  crazy  about  it,"  he  said. 

"A  lot  of  fellows  always  said  Tom  was  kind  of 
crazy,  anyway,"  Roy  concluded;  "but  you  can  be 
crazy  in  a  good  way — can't  you?" 

"Yes,  you  bet!" 

"If  I  only  knew  where  he  was,"  said  Roy,  with 


A  SOLDIER'S  HONOR  183 

a  little  catch  in  his  voice,  "it  wouldn't  seem  so 
bad." 

"If  I  knew  where  he  is,  I'd  tell  you,"  said  Ros- 
coe  simply. 

"How  could  you  know?  You  never  even  knew 
him.  Even  Mr.  Ellsworth  didn't  know  him  the 
way  I  did." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  him,"  said  Roscoe;  "not  as 
well  as  you  did,  of  course;  but  I'll  tell  you  this 
much,  kiddo :  I  don't  believe  he  lied  to  any  one, 
and  I  don't  believe  he  broke  his  promise." 

"Honest,  don't  you?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

"I  wish — I  wish  you  had  told  Mr.  Ellsworth 
that." 

"I  couldn't  have  proved — I  mean — well,  it  isn't 
so  easy  to  talk  to  Mr.  Ellsworth  as  it  is  to  you, 
kiddo." 

"I'll  tell  you  something  if  you'll  promise  not  to 
tell  it — not  even  to  Mr.  Ellsworth,"  said  Roy. 

"A  soldier's  word  of  honor,"  said  Roscoe,  with 
a  little  bitter  sneer. 

"All  the  fellows  in  the  Elk  Patrol — that's 
Tom's  own  patrol,  he  started  it — they  made  an 
agreement  they  wouldn't  ask  any  fellows  to  join, 
or  even  vote  for  one — not  for  six  months.     In 


1 84     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

that  time  we  might  hear  something — you  can't 
tell.  Mr.  Ellsworth  may  possibly  be  wrong. 
Something  may  have  happened  to  Tom.  My  pa- 
trol and  the  Ravens,  they  mostly  agree  with  Mr. 
Ellsworth,  and  even  some  of  the  Elks  do,  I  guess; 
but  I  asked  them  as  a  special  favor." 

"So  they're  doing  it  for  your  sake,  eh?" 

"Yop.  And  oh,  gee,  I'm  glad  you're  with  me! 
I  didn't  know  you  ever  knew  Tom  Slade. — I'm 
glad  you  think  the  way  I  do. — I  used  to  see  you 
with  Rolf  Brownell  in  his  automobile.  I  didn't 
know  who  you  were  then.  .  .  .  I — I  believe  in 
sticking  to  a  fellow  through  thick  and  thin — don't 
you?" 

"Some  fellows." 

"I  got  Tom  in  the  troop,  you  know." 

"You  did  a  good  job,  I  guess,  that  time,"  said 
Roscoe  absently. 

"You  can  bet  I  did. — Cracky,  I'm  awful  anx- 
ious to  hear  you  to-morrow  night.  You'll  get  a 
lot  of  applause — from  me;  that's  dead  sure!" 

Roscoe  laughed.    He  had  an  engaging  laugh. 

"It  seems  as  if  you're  sort  of  an  ally  now," 
said  Roy.  "There  aren't  any  of  the  troop  that 
really  agree  with  me,"  he  added  dubiously. 
"Well,  here's  where  I  have  to  leave  you.     Don't 


A  SOLDIER'S  HONOR  185 

forget  to  tell  your  father  what  Mr.  Ellsworth 
said" 

Roscoe  laughed  shortly. 

"About  supplying  Uncle  Sam  with  a  good  sol= 
dier,  you  know." 

They  paused  at  the  corner. 

"You  can't  always  tell  who  really  does  the  sup- 
plying, kiddo. — It  might  possibly  be  a  fellow's 
mother,  say — or  a  girl — or " 

"I  bet  girls  like  you,  all  right.  And  I  bet  you're 
brave  too.  Gee,  you  must  have  felt  proud  on 
Registration  Day  when  you  stood  in  line  to  reg- 
ister. I  bet  you  were  one  of  the  first  ones, 
weren't  you?  We  helped  that  day,  too.  Maybe 
you  saw  me — I  gave  out  badges.  But  I  guess  you 
wouldn't  remember  because  you  were  probably  all 
— all  thrilled;  you  know  what  I  mean.  That  was 
the  day — Tom — didn't  show  up " 

Roscoe  Bent  walked  on  alone.  In  a  drug  store 
window  on  the  opposite  corner  was  a  placard,  the 
handiwork  of  the  scouts,  which  showed  how  much 
store  Mr.  Ellsworth  set  on  the  meeting  of  the 
next  night: 

SPECIAL!     SPECIAL! 

and  a  little  farther  down: 


1 86     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

SCOUT  GAMES 

EXHIBITIONS  OF 

SCOUT  SKILL  AND  RESOURCE 

and  so  forth,  and  so  forth: 

ONE  OF  OUR  OWN  BOYS  FROM  CAMP 

DIX,  PRIVATE  ROSCOE  BENT, 

WILL    TELL    OF    SOLDIER    LIFE. 

COME   AND   GIVE   HIM   A   WELCOME 

There  was  more,  but  that  was  all  Roscoe  saw. 
It  sickened  him  to  read  it.  He  went  on,  heavy 
hearted,  trying  to  comfort  himself  with  the  reflec- 
tion that  he  really  did  not  know  where  Tom  was 
or  what  he  was  doing.  But  it  did  not  afford  him 
much  comfort. 

As  he  walked  along,  his  head  down,  certain 
phrases  ran  continually  through  his  mind.  They 
came  out  of  the  past,  like  things  dead,  out  of  an- 
other life  which  Roscoe  Bent  knew  no  more :  Do 
you  think  I'd  let  them  get  you?  Do  you  think 
because  you  made  fun  of  me  .  .  .  I  wouldn't  he 
a  friend  to  you?  I  got  the  strength  to  strangle 
you!  I  know  the  trail — I'm  a  scout — and  I  got 
here  first.  They'd  have  to  kill  me  to  make  me 
tell.   .   .   . 


A  SOLDIER'S  HONOR  187 

Roscoe  Bent  looked  behind  him,  as  if  he  ex- 
pected to  see  some  one  there.  But  there  was 
nothing  but  the  straight,  long  street,  in  narrowing 
perspective. 

Under  a  lamp  post  on  the  next  corner  he  took 
out  of  his  alligator-skin  wallet  a  folded  paper, 
very  much  worn  on  the  creases,  and  holding  it  so 
that  the  light  caught  it  he  skimmed  hurriedly  the 
few  half-legible  sentences : 

".  .  .  glad  you  didn't  tell.  If  you  had 
told  it  would  have  spoiled  it  all — so  I'm 
going  to  help  the  government  in  a  way  I  can 
do  without  lying  to  anybody.  .  .  .  can  see 
I'm  not  the  kind  that  tells  lies.  The  thing 
.  .  .  most  glad  about  .  .  .  that  you  got  reg- 
istered. .  .  .  like  you  and  I  always  did,  even 
when  you  made  fun  of  me." 

UI  made  fun "  he  mumbled,  crumpling  the 

letter  and  sticking  it  into  the  capacious  pocket  of 
Uncle  Sam's  big  coat.  "/ — Christopher!  If  I 
only  had  your  nerve  now — Tommy.  It  doesn't — 
it  doesn't  count  for  so  much  to  be  able  to  strangle 
a  fellow — though  I  ought  to  be  strangled. — It's 
just    like    Margaret    said — the    other    kind    of 


1 88     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

strength.  If  I  could  only  make  up  my  mind  to 
do  a  thing,  like  he  could,  and  then  do  it!" 

He  leaned  against  the  lamp  post,  this  fine  young 
soldier  who  was  going  to  help  "can  the  Kaiser," 
and  he  did  not  stand  erect  at  all,  and  all  his  fine 
air  was  gone  from  him. 

You  had  better  not  slink  and  slouch  like  that  on 
the  platform  to-morrow  night,  Private  Roscoe 
Bent. 

"I  can  see  myself  giving  my  father  that  mes- 
sage !  Proud  of  me — of  me!  Brave  soldier! 
That's  what  this  poor  kid  said.  And  me  trying 
to  flim-flam  myself  into  thinking  that  I've  got  to 
keep  still  because  I  promised  Tom.     How  is  it 

any  of  his  business?    It's  between  me  and  my 

And  I  made  fun  of  him — him!  I  wonder  what 
this  bully  scout  kid  would  say  to  that!  I'm — 
I'm  a  low-down,  contemptible  sneak — that's 
what " 

On  a  sudden  impulse,  the  same  fine  impulse 
which  would  some  day  carry  him  ahead  of  his 
comrades,  straight  across  the  German  trenches,  he 
ran  to  the  corner  where  he  had  parted  with  Roy 
and  looked  eagerly  up  one  street  and  down  an- 
other. He  ran  to  the  next  corner  and  looked  anx- 
iously down  the  street  which  crossed  there.     He 


A  SOLDIER'S  HONOR  189 

ran  a  block  up  this  street  and  looked  as  far  as  he 
could  see  along  Terrace  Place  which  was  the  way 
up  to  the  fine  old  Blakeley  homestead  on  the  hill. 

But  no  sign  of  Roy  was  there  to  be  seen,  for 
the  good  and  sufficient  reason  that  when  Roy 
Blakeley,  "Silver  Fox,"  took  it  into  his  head  to  go 
scout  pace,  he  was  presently  invisible  to  pursuers. 

So  Roscoe's  impulse  passed,  as  Roscoe's  im- 
pulses were  very  apt  to  do,  and  he  wandered 
homeward,  telling  himself  that  fate  had  been 
against  him  and  balked  his  noble  resolution. 

As  he  went  down  through  Rockwood  Place  he 
saw  the  lights  in  the  library,  which  told  him  that 
his  mother  and  father  were  still  up.  But  he  did 
not  deliver  Mr.  Ellsworth's  message;  he  was 
strong  enough  for  that,  anyway.  Instead,  he  went 
straight  up  to  his  own  room,  which  he  had  not 
occupied  lately,  and  when  he  got  up  there  he 
found  that  he  was  not  alone.  For  a  certain  face 
haunted  him  all  night  and  would  not  go  away — a 
face  with  a  heavy  shock  of  hair,  with  a  big, 
rugged  mouth,  and  a  bloody  cut  on  its  forehead. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE    FACE 

All  the  next  day  that  face  haunted  Roscoe. 
"If  I  could  only  know  where  he  is,"  he  said  to 
himself;  "if  I  could  bring  him  back,  I'd  tell  the 
whole  business." 

It  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  Tom  was  dead 
and  that  that  was  why  he  was  continually  seeing 
that  stolid  face  with  the  bloody  scar.  "Maybe 
the  cut  got  worse  and  he  got  blood  poisoning  and 
died,"  he  thought. 

This  train  of  thought  possessed  him  so  that  he 
grew  to  believe  that  Tom  Slade  must  really  be 
dead.  And  that  being  the  case,  there  would  be  no 
use  in  telling  anybody  anything.    .    .     . 

At  breakfast  he  seemed  so  preoccupied  that 
after  he  left  the  room  his  mother  said  to  his 
father, 

"You  don't  think  he's  nervous  or  timid,  do 
you?" 

"I  think  he's  a  little  nervous  about  making  a 

190 


THE  FACE  191 

speech  in  public,"  said  Mr.  Bent.  "He  isn't 
afraid  of  anything  else,"  he  added  proudly. 

During  the  morning  Mrs.  Bent  wanted  to  take 
his  picture.  "You  look  so  splendid  and  handsome 
in  your  uniform,  dear!"  she  told  him.  So  he 
stood  in  the  big  bay  window  where  the  sunlight 
streamed  in  and  let  her  snap  the  camera  at  him. 
He  did  look  splendid  and  handsome,  there  was 
no  denying  that. 

Then  she  would  have  him  develop  the  film  with 
his  own  hands  so  that  she  could  make  some  prints 
right  away.  "You  may  not  have  another  leave," 
she  said.  "It's  dreadful  that  you  have  to  go  back 
to  camp  late  to-night." 

"Don't  you  care,"  he  laughed,  in  that  compan- 
ionable way  in  which  he  always  talked  with  his 
mother. 

"You  can  take  one  of  the  prints  over  to  East 
Bridgeboro  to-night,"  she  added,  as  an  inducement 
to  his  developing  the  film  at  once. 

"Think  she'd  like  to  have  one?" 

"The  idea!     Of  course  she  would." 

So,  to  please  his  mother,  Roscoe  took  off  Uncle 
Sam's  service  coat,  put  on  a  kitchen  apron,  and 
went  into  his  little  familiar  dark  closet  to  wrestle 
with  chemicals. 


1 92     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

And  there  again,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  red 
lantern,  and  the  deathlike  quiet,  he  saw  that  face 
— with  the  cut  and  the  thick,  disordered  hair,  and 
the  big,  tight-set  mouth.  "You  can  see  yourself  it 
wouldn't  do  for  anybody  to  know,"  he  fancied  the 
lips  saying.   "If  you  told,  it  would  spoil  it  all " 

"I  won't  spoil  it,"  Roscoe  mumbled,  as  if  he 
were  doing  the  shadowy  presence  a  great  favor. 

Private  Bent,  who  was  going  to  "can  the 
Kaiser,"  was  glad  to  get  out  of  that  dark,  stuffy 
place. 

In  the  afternoon  he  went  down  into  the  cellar 
to  grease  and  cover  up  his  motorcycle  in  anticipa- 
tion of  his  long  absence  "over  there."  This  would 
be  his  last  chance  to  do  it,  unless  he  got  up  very 
early  in  the  morning.  But  then  he  would  be  an 
hour  over  his  leave  in  getting  back  to  camp  late 
to-night  on  a  milk  train.  A  soldier's  honor  must 
not  be  sullied  by  a  stolen  hour.    .    .    . 

And  there  again  Roscoe  Bent  saw  that  face. 
It  was  a  little  more  than  a  face  this  time.  He 
could  almost  have  sworn  that  he  saw  the  figure 
of  Tom  Slade  standing  over  in  the  dark  corner 
near  the  coal  bins;  and  as  Roscoe,  kneeling  by  his 
motorcycle,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  this  thing  another 
sentence  ran  through  his  thoughts:  "Those  secret 


THE  FACE  193 

service  fellows — do  yer  think  I'd  let  them  get  yer? 
Do  you  think  because  you  made  fun  of  me   .   .    " 

He  tried  to  stare  the  apparition  down,  but  it 
would  not  disappear — not  until  he  went  over  to  it 
and  saw  that  it  was  just  a  burlap  bag  full  of 
kindling  wood,  with  James,  the  furnace  man's,  old 
felt  hat  thrown  upon  it. 

"I — I  know  what  it  means,  all  right,"  he  mut- 
tered; "it  means  he's  dead." 

After  supper  he  parted  his  wavy  blond  hair, 
and  his  mother  brushed  his  uniform  while  he 
stood  straight  as  an  arrow,  his  handsome  head 
thrown  back.  Then  his  father  proudly  helped 
him  into  his  big  military  coat  and  he  started  for 
East  Bridgeboro,  which  was  across  the  river.  The 
new  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hall  was  not  over  there,  but  he 
was  going  there  first,  just  the  same. 

"Have  you  got  the  print?"  his  mother  called 
after  him. 

"Sure." 

"The  one  holding  the  gun?  You  look  so  sol- 
dierly and  brave  in  that!" 

He  laughed  as  he  went  down  the  steps. 

But  presently  he  became  moody  and  preoccu- 
pied again.  "If  Mr.  Ellsworth  hadn't  dragged  me 
into  this  thing,"  he  said  to  himself,  "it  wouldn't 


i94     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

be  so  bad.  It  gets  my  goat  to  stand  up  there  and 
shoot  off  about  honor  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
But  I  can't  do  anything  else  now.  I'm  not  going 
to  spoil  it  all.  It  can't  make  any  difference  to 
.Tom  now — he's  out  of  the  game.  He's  through 
with  the  scouts,  and  he's  through  with  Bridgeboro 
— dead,  I'm  afraid.  And  if  I  just  keep  my  mouth 
shut,  it'll  be  doing  just  what  he  wanted  me  to  do; 
it  was  his  idea." 

So  that  was  settled;  and  in  place  of  those 
troubling  thoughts,  Roy  Blakeley  bobbed  up  in 
his  mind — Roy  Blakeley,  who  believed  in  "stand- 
ing by  a  fellow  through  thick  and  thin" ;  who  was 
staunch  and  loyal  to  his  friend. 

"He's  a  bully  kid,"  mused  Roscoe,  as  he 
crossed  the  bridge  whence  the  town  derived  its 
name,  and  the  more  he  thought  about  Roy  the 
more  mean  and  contemptible  he  felt  himself  to  be. 

At  the  scouts'  float  hard  by  the  bridge,  the 
troop's  cabin  launch,  the  Good  Turn,  participant 
in  many  adventures,  past  and  to  come,  lay 
j  moored. 

Even  the  sophisticated  Roscoe,  who  had  never 
"bothered  much  with  the  kids,"  knew  of  this  fa- 
mous boat.  There  had  been  a  photograph  of  it 
hanging  in  the  Temple  Camp  office,  with  the  face 


THE  FACE  195 

of  Tom  Slade  peering  out  through  the  little 
hatchway.  The  sudden  knocking  of  the  hull 
against  the  float  in  the  still  night  startled  him,  and 
as  he  looked  down  upon  the  moon-lit  river  with  its 
black  background  of  trees  he  fancied  again  that 
he  saw  the  face  of  Tom  Slade  looking  out  from 
the  hatchway  of  the  boat. 

"Hello,  there!"  he  called,  though  of  course  he 
knew  no  one  was  there. 

Once  over  the  bridge,  he  took  a  short  cut 
through  Morrell's  Grove  for  the  River  Road. 

"It's  best  to  let  well  enough  alone,"  he  told 
himself;  "what's  past  is  past.  I'm  not  going  to 
worry  about  it  now.  If  Ellsworth  hadn't  hauled 
me  into  this  thing,  and  given  me  that  spiel,  1 
wouldn't  be  bothering  my  head  about  things  that 
happened  months  ago.     I'm  not  going  to  worry." 

He  was  singularly  moody  and  dissatisfied  for  a 
person  who  was  not  going  to  worry. 

"Wish  I  could  get  that  Blakeley  kid  out  of  my 
head,"  he  reflected. 

But  he  couldn't  exactly  get  that  Blakeley  kid 
out  of  his  head,  and  he  couldn't  get  that  face  out 
of  his  mind,  nor  Mr.  Ellsworth's  stinging  words 
out  of  his  memory.  So  he  stumbled  along  through 
the  dark  grove,  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  the 


196     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

boys  and  how  he  should  talk  to  Margaret  Ellison 
so  as  not  to  let  her  suspect  his  troubled  conscience 
and  general  feeling  of — not  exactly  meanness  and 
dishonor,  but    .    .    . 

"Girls  are  such  blamed  fiends  for  reading  your 
thoughts,"  he  grumbled. 

About  halfway  through  the  grove  he  stopped 
suddenly  in  the  narrow  path.  For  there  was  that 
face  again  peering  out  of  the  darkness.  There 
was  a  slouch  hat  on  it  this  time,  but  the  old  fa- 
miliar shock  of  hair  protruded  from  under  it  and 
there  was  an  ugly  scar  on  the  forehead. 

"It's  blamed  dark  in  here,"  said  Roscoe,  as  he 
pulled  himself  together.  A  lonely  owl  answered 
with  a  dismal  shriek  from  a  distant  tree,  making 
the  night  seem  still  more  spooky. 

Roscoe  tried  to  whistle  to  keep  up  his  spirits,  but 
as  he  walked  on  along  the  path  the  face,  instead 
of  fading  away,  seemed  to  become  clearer,  and  he 
could  have  sworn  that  there  was  the  dark  outline 
of  a  form  below  it  leaning  against  a  tree.  It  was 
only  his  fancy  enlivened  by  his  conscience,  he 
knew,  but  it  took  him  back  to  a  night  months  be- 
fore, when  he  had  stood  in  a  remote  mountain 
trail  and  watched  a  figure  clinging  to  a  tree,  and 
he  remembered  how  he  had  stood  speechless  and 


THE  FACE  197 

listened,  as  a  man  may  watch  a  thunderstorm. 
No  one  in  all  the  wide  world  but  those  two  had 
known  of  that  meeting. 

"Or  ever  will,"  thought  Private  Bent. 

Suddenly  he  paused  again,  and  he,  Private  Ros- 
coe  Bent,  who  would  take  delight  in  canning  the 
Kaiser,  who  would  give  his  young  life  if  need  be 
to  make  the  world  free  for  democracy,  trembled 
like  a  leaf. 

The  figure  had  moved — he  was  sure  of  it.  For 
a  couple  of  seconds  he  could  not  speak,  he  was 
breathing  so  heavily. 

"Hello!"  he  finally  managed  to  call. 

"Hello!"  came  a  dull  voice.  "There  ain't  any 
need  to  be  afraid,"  it  added.  "/  couldn't  hurt 
you.  I  can't  see  very  good — is  it — you — Ros- 
coe?" 

Roscoe  spoke  not  a  word  but  went  forward  and 
cautiously  felt  of  the  figure,  laid  his  hand  on  the 
heavy  thick  shoulder  and  peered  into  the  face. 

"Tom  Slade,"  he  muttered. 

"I  didn't  know  you  in  your  soldier's  coat,"  said 
Tom;  "it  makes  you  look  so  tall  and  straight  and 
— brave " 

Still  the  soldier  did  not  speak,  only  kept  his 
hand  upon  Tom's  shoulder  and  looked  into  his 


198     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

square  ugly  face.  And  again  the  ghostly  hoot  of 
the  owl  made  the  little  patch  of  woods  seem  more 
spooky  and  lonesome. 

Then  Private  Roscoe  Bent,  Second  Infantry, 
U.  S.  A.,  who  intended  to  help  roll  the  Teuton 
lines  back  and  smash  militarism  once  and  for  all, 
who  would  go  over  the  top  with  all  the  fine  frenzy 
of  his  impulsive  nature  and  send  the  blond  beast 
reeling,  slipped  his  arm  farther  over  Tom's  shoul- 
der until  Tom  Slade  could  feel  the  warmth  from 
the  thick  sleeve  of  Uncle  Sam's  big  military  coat 
upon  his  own  bare  neck  and  threadbare  flannel 
shirt.  And  the  handsome  head  with  its  wavy 
blond  hair  which  Private  Roscoe  Bent  knew  how 
to  hold  with  such  a  fine  air,  hung  down  against 
that  threadbare  shirt  in  anything  but  martial 
fashion. 

"Oh,  Tom — Tom  Slade "  he  said,  a  feeling 

of  great  relief  taking  possession  of  him.  "I  know 
what  to  do  now — now  I  can  see  straight — as  you 
used  to  say. — You've  come — to  show  me  the  right 
way,  just  as  you  did  before." 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

ROSCOE  BENT  BREAKS   HIS  PROMISE 

"There  ain't  so  much  more  to  tell,"  said  Tom, 
in  his  old  lifeless  way.  "After  that  we  got  tor- 
pedoed. The  officer  said  only  sixteen  could  get  on 
a  raft,  and  there  was  a  man  who  was  anxious  to 
get  on  and  he  made  seventeen,  so  I  got  off.  I 
guess  I  was  the  last  one  on  the  ship.  She  made 
an  awful  noise  when  she  went  down." 

"Yes— and " 

"There's  nothing  else."  Tom's  reports  of 
thrilling  happenings  were  always  provokingly 
tame  and  brief.  "I  swam  around  for  about  two 
hours,  I  guess.  I  had  a  piece  of  a  door  to  hold 
on  to.  That  scar's  where  a  big  wave  banged  me 
against  it. — A  schooner  picked  me  up.  I'd  'a'  got 
picked  up  sooner,  maybe,  only  I  was  the  last  one 
and  I  drifted  away  from  the  ship  lane — sort  of. 
It  was  going  to  South  America  after  bananas,  so 
they  took  me  there." 

"How'd  you  get  back?" 

"Came  home  on  another  ship.    I  worked  cabin 

199 


200    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

boy.  They  caught  a  German  spy  on  the  first 
ship." 

It  was  quite  like  him  not  to  tell  how  they  hap- 
pened to  catch  the  spy. 

"And  then  you  came  right  here?" 

"They  gave  me  dinner  in  the  Sailors'  Mission 
in  New  York,  and  then  I  started  out  here." 

"You  don't  mean  you  walked?" 

"I'm  going  to  Mrs.  O'Connor's  in  the  Alley 
where  I  used  to  live — till  I  can  get  a  job.  I  made 
two  good  friends,  but  I  don't  know  whether  they 
were  drowned. — You  look  good  in  your  soldier 
suit." 

Roscoe  had  to  get  control  of  himself  before  he 
could  answer. 

"That's  a  screech-owl,"  said  Tom;  "hear  him? 
When  you  get — when  I  was  a  scout  we  had  to 
learn  the  calls  of  all  the  different  birds." 

"Never  mind  that.  Why  did  you  go  on  that 
ship?" 

"I  told  you — I  wanted  to  help  with  the  Colors." 

Roscoe  struggled  again  with  his  voice. 

"Don't  you  think  you  did  enough  for  the 
Colors,"  he  said  thickly,  "when  you  gave  me  this 
uniform?    Don't  you  think  that  was  enough?" 

"I  didn't  give  it  to  you." 


ROSCOE  BREAKS  HIS  PROMISE    201 

"Sit  down  here  a  minute.  Don't  you  think  you 
did  enough  for  the  Colors  when  you  started  me — 
over  the  top?    Don't  you?" 

"It  wasn't  me.  Anyhow,  you  can't  do  too  much 
for  the  Colors." 

Roscoe  paused  with  his  hand  on  Tom's  knee. 
"No,  I  guess  you  can't,"  he  said. 

"You  never  told  anybody,  did  you?"  Tom 
asked. 

"No,"  said  Roscoe,  with  that  little  sneer  of 
self-disgust.     "I  never  told." 

"It  would  of  spoiled  it  all  if  you  had.  You  got 
to  be  careful  never  to  tell.  You  got  to  be  'spe- 
cially careful,  now  you're  a  soldier — and  look  so 
fine  and  straight." 

"Don't,  Tom." 

"You  got  to  promise  you'll  never  tell,"  said 
Tom,  scenting  danger  in  Roscoe's  manner.  "Will 
you?" 

"Have  you  got  any  money  at  all,  Tom?" 

"You  got  to  promise  you'll  never  let  'em  know 
about  it  now.    Do  you?" 

"Never  mind  that,  Tom " 

"You've  got  to.     Do  you?"  Tom  persisted. 

"Can't  you  trust  to  a  soldier's  honor,  Tom, 
without  pinning  him  down?" 


202     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"Do  you  promise?" 

"Won't  you  trust  a  friend?  Won't  you  trust  a 
soldier's  honor,  Tom?" 

"Yes,"  said  Tom.    "I  will." 

For  a  few  moments  Roscoe  sat  breathing 
audibly  and  staring  at  Tom  as  if  hardly  knowing 
what  to  do  or  say  next. 

"Do  you  know  where  I'm  going  now?"  he 
asked,  feeling  the  necessity  or  speaking. 

"Maybe  I  could  guess,"  said  Tom:  "you're 
going  up  River  Road.  I  bet  she  said  you  looked 
fine  in  your  uniform." 

"Yes,  I'm  going  there.  I'm  going  to  take  her 
to  a  racket  in  Bridgeboro." 

"It's  funny  how  I  met  you  here,"  said  Tom. 

"You  walked  all  the  way  out  on  the  turnpike 
road,  I  suppose.  Tom,"  he  broke  off  suddenly, 
"there  isn't  any  time  to  sit  here  and  talk  now; 
listen.  It  seems  as  if  all  these  weeks  had  been 
wiped  out  and  we  were  back  up  on  that  mountain 
again." 

"I  knew  you'd  like  it  up  there ;  I " 

"Never  mind  that;  listen.  We're  back  just 
where  we  were  that  night.  We  can  make  every- 
thing all  right." 

"Everything  is  all  right." 


ROSCOE  BREAKS  HIS  PROMISE  203 

"No,  it  isn't;  everything  isn't  all  right — old 
man.  Tom,  there's  a  meeting  to-night,  a  sort  of 
jumble — Y.  M.  C.  A.,  scouts,  and  I  don't  know 
what  all.  Ellsworth  nailed  me  for  it.  I've  got 
to  give  the  bunch  a  little  spiel. — Tom,  I  want  you 
to  come  to  it " 

"Now,  don't  start  that;  listen.  It's  in  the  new 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  Hall.  I  know  you  haven't  got  any 
clothes,  if  that's  what  you  want  to  say,  and  I  don't 
care  a  hang  about  your  clothes.  I  don't  ask  you 
to  blow  in  with  the  rest  of  them  and  sit  in  the  au- 
dience," he  went  on  hurriedly.  "But  just  stroll 
around  after  everything's  started  and  the  lights 
are  down.  They  couldn't  see  you — they  won't 
notice  you.    Just  stand  in  back." 

"They  got  no  use  for  me;  they " 

"This  is  between  you  and  me,  old  man;  nobody 
else  has  got  anything  to  do  with  it.  Go  down  to 
jMrs.  What's-her-name's " 

"O'Connor's,"  said  Tom. 

"Go  down  there  and  wash  up,  if  you  want  to — 
I  don't  care.  Only  promise  me  you'll  come 
around  I  want  you  to  see  me  make  a  show  of 
myself.  You'll  have  a  good  laugh — you  old 
grouch,"  he  added,  with  sudden  good  humor,  "and 


204     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

after  it's  over  we'll  go  up  to  my  house  and  have  a 
good  long  talk." 

"I've  often  passed  your  house,"  said  Tom. 

"I'm  going  down  to  camp  on  a  milk  train  about 
two  A.  M.  This  may  be  the  last  chance  for  us 
to  see  each  other,"  Roscoe  still  spoke  hurriedly; 
"they're  sending  troops  across  every  week,  Tom." 

"I  know  they  are." 

'When  I  left  you  up  on  that  mountain,  Tom,  I 
promised  to  come  right  back  and  register;  and  I 
did  it,  didn't  I?" 

"I  told  you  nobody'd  ever  find  out  about 
that " 

"Never  mind  that.  Will  you  do  something  for 
me  now?    Will  you  say  you'll  come?" 

Tom  hesitated.  "I  always  said  you'd  be  good 
at  making  speeches,  and  that  kind  of  thing, 
but " 

Roscoe  thrust  his  hand  straight  out.  "Give  me 
your  hand,  Tom,  and  say  you'll  come." 

"Maybe  I  will." 

"Say  you'll  come." 

"I'd  only  stand  in  back  after  they  put  the  lights 
down." 

"Say  you'll  come,"  Roscoe  persisted. 

"All  right." 


*OH*  T<  >M     V(  (U'VE  <  IOME-TO  SHOW  ME  THE  RIGHT  WAV,  JUST  AS  YOU   DID 

BEFORE." 

Page  202 


ROSCOE  BREAKS  HIS  PROMISE     205 

"Sure,  now?" 

"I  ain't  the  kind  that  breaks  my  word,"  said 
Tom  dully.  "But  besides  that,  I  want  to  hear 
you." 

Roscoe  held  his  hand  tight  for  a  full  minute. 
Then  they  parted  and  he  hurried  along  the  River 
Road. 

He  was  already  late,  but  he  would  probably 
have  hurried  anyway,  for  when  the  heart  is  danc- 
ing it  is  hard  for  the  feet  to  move  slowly.  And 
Roscoe's  heart  was  dancing.  He  could  "see 
straight"  now,  all  right.  To  be  a  soldier  you 
must  see  straight  as  well  as  shoot  straight. 

He  swung  along  the  River  Road  with  a  fine 
air,  as  if  he  owned  it,  and  passing  a  small  boy 
(bound  across  the  river,  perhaps)  he  lifted  the 
youngster's  hat  off  and  handed  it  to  him  with  a 
laugh.  When  he  reached  the  Ellison  cottage  he 
deliberately  kept  pushing  the  bell  button  again 
and  again,  just  out  of  sheer  exuberance,  until 
Margaret  herself  threw  the  door  open  and  ex- 
claimed, 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing;  can't  you  take  a  joke?" 

"You're  late,"  she  said. 

"Sure;  I'm  a  punk  soldier.     That's  a  swell  hat 


2o6    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

you've  got  on.     Can  you  hustle?     If  you  don't 
mind,  we'll  take  the  short  cut  through  the  grove." 

It  was  a  swell  hat,  there  is  no  denying  that, 
and  she  looked  very  pretty  in  it. 

"I'm  taking  my  knitting,"  she  said,  handing 
him  one  of  those  sumptuous  bags  with  two  vicious- 
looking  knitting  needles  sticking  out  of  it. 

"I  hate  to  go  through  the  grove,  it's  so 
spooky,"  she  said,  as  they  hurried  along.  "I'm 
always  seeing  things  there.     Do  you,  ever?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Really?    What?" 

"Oh,  lions  and  tigers  and  things." 

"Now  you  make  me  afraid,"  she  shuddered. 

"I  met  a  lion  in  there  to-night,"  he  said;  "that's 
what  delayed  me.  If  I  see  another  one,  I'll  jab 
him  with  one  of  these  knitting  needles.  Hear  that 
screech-owl?  He  sounds  like  the  Kaiser'll  feel 
next  year. — Do  you  know  that  Blakeley  kid?" 

"Roy?    Surely  I  do.     Everybody  knows  him." 

"He's  all  wool  and  a  yard  wide,  isn't  he  ?" 

"Yes,  he's  fine." 

"Look  out  you  don't  trip  on  that  rock. — He 
walked  down  the  street  with  me  last  night  and 
talked  about — about  that  Slade  fellow." 
1  om,  you  mean  r 


ROSCOE  BREAKS  HIS  PROMISE     207 

"Yes ;  he's  a  staunch  believer  in  Tom,  even  yet." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"I  think  you  kind  of  liked  that  fellow,"  said 
Roscoe  teasingly. 

"I  always  said  if  he  ever  made  up  his  mind  to 
do  a  thing  he'd  do  it." 

"Well,  I  guess  he  went  and  done  it,  as  my  old 
school  grammar  used  to  say." 

"I  don't  like  to  hear  you  speak  flippantly  about 
him." 

"How  about  me?  Suppose  I  should  make  up 
my  mind  to  do  a  thing " 

"Here  we  are  at  the  bridge  already,"  she  said. 

The  new  Y.  M.  C.  A.  Assembly  Hall  presented 
a  gay  scene,  and  they  pushed  through  the  crowd, 
Roscoe  opening  a  way  for  the  girl  to  pass,  greeted 
on  both  hands  by  his  friends  and  former  com- 
panions. It  seemed  as  if  all  the  young  people  of 
the  town  were  on  hand;  scouts  were  conspicuously 
in  evidence,  and  among  them  all  Mr.  Ellsworth 
hustled  genially  about  attending  to  a  hundred  and 
one  duties. 

"There  you  are,"  said  Roscoe;  "take  that  seat. 
Reminds  you  of  that  meeting  on  June  fifth  last 
when  I  wasn't  with  you — and  Slade  didn't  show 


208     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

up   either.     Now,   don't  forget  to   clap  when  I 
stand  up,  will  you?" 

He  swung  up  onto  the  platform,  where  Roy 
and  Pee-wee  and  Doc  Carson  and  Connie  Bennett 
and  the  whole  tribe  of  Silver  Foxes  clustered 
about  him,  helping  him  out  of  his  big  military 
coat  and  hovering  about  the  chair  he  sat  in.  Even 
Dr.  Wade,  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  the  gentlemen 
of  the  Local  Scout  Council  received  less  attention. 

As  he  sat  there  waiting,  one  or  two  of  the  scouts 
noticed  (for  scouts  are  nothing  if  not  observant) 
that  he  craned  his  neck  and  looked  far  back  into 
the  lobby.  If  they  thought  twice  about  it,  how- 
ever, they  probably  attributed  it  to  nervousness. 

At  last,  after  much  impatient  handclapping,  all 
except  the  stage  lights  were  dimmed,  and  Roy  no- 
ticed again  how  the  soldier  peered  searchingly 
into  the  back  of  the  hall. 

"Your  mother  and  father  coming?"  he  asked. 

"They  might  stroll  around." 

"You  look  dandy,"  Roy  whispered. 

Roscoe  grabbed  him  by  the  neck  pleasantly  and 
winked  as  he  reached  slyly  over  and  pulled  Pee- 
wee's  belt  axe  from  its  martial  sheath,  to  the 
amusement  of  some  boys  in  the  audience.  But  it 
was  no  matter  for  laughing,  for  if  the  Germans 


ROSCOE  BREAKS  HIS  PROMISE     209 

should  break  through  the  French  lines  at  Verdun, 
say,  and  push  through  to  Bordeaux,  capture  all  the 
French  transports,  run  the  British  blockade  and 
make  a  sudden  flank  move  against  Bridgeboro, 
Pee-wee  would  be  very  thankful  that  he  had  his 
belt-axe  along. 

It  was  a  great  affair — that  meeting.  Dr.  Wade 
told  of  the  aims  of  the  new  Y.  M.  C.  A.;  the 
Methodist  Scouts  gave  an  exhibition  of  pole  jump- 
ing; the  Elks  (one  member  short)  gave  a  demon- 
stration of  First-Aid  bandaging,  and  a  Red  Cross 
woman  gave  a  demonstration  of  surgery,  for  (as 
Roy  said)  she  extracted  one  bone  from  everybody 
in  the  audience.  Oh,  it  was  a  great  affair!  They 
had  a  movie  play,  Scouts  in  Service;  the  Bridge- 
boro Quartette  sang  Over  There;  a  real,  live  Bel- 
gian refugee  told  how  the  gentle,  kind  Germans 
burned  his  little  home  and  sent  his  sisters  and 
brothers  into  slavery. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  tragic  story  fresh  in  their 
minds  which  caused  the  crowd  to  clap  vigorously 
when  Private  Bent,  Second  Infantry,  U.  S.  A., 
jumped  to  his  feet  as  Mr.  Ellsworth  finished  in- 
troducing him  and  stood,  feet  close  together, 
straight  as  an  arrow,  a  little  flush  of  embarrass- 
ment upon  his  handsome  face,  and  threw  his  head 


210     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

back  suddenly  to-  get  his  little  forelock  of  wavy 
hair  out  of  the  way. 

It  is  no  discredit  to  Dr.  Wade  or  to  Mr.  Perry, 
of  the  Local  Council,  that  Roscoe  caught  the  audi- 
ence with  his  first  words.  He  was  so  young  and 
fresh,  so  boyishly  off-hand — so  different  from  the 
others  who  had  spoken.  And  then  his  straight 
young  figure  and  his  uniform ! 

"I  don't  know  exactly  why  I'm  here,"  he  said; 
"I  got  this  thing  wished  on  me  and  you've  got  me 
wished  on  you.  I'm  sorry  for  you.  So  far  as  I'm 
concerned  I  guess  I  don't  deserve  any  sympathy. 
I  ran  right  into  Scoutmaster  Ellsworth  with  my 
eyes  wide  open  [laughter]  and  he  nabbed  me.  I 
should  have  kept  my  fingers  crossed  when  I  came 
back  to  Bridgeboro.     He  took  me  to  his  house 

and  fed  me  on  sugar " 

"You're  lucky,"  some  one  called. 
"And  what  could  I  do  after  that?" 
"If  I  ever  get  clear  of  the  Boy  Scouts,  believe 
me,  I'll  never  get  tangled  up  with  them  again. 
[Laughter.]  But  they  tell  me  I'll  see  more  of 
them  in  England  and  still  more  of  them  in  France 
— so  I  guess  there's  no  hope  of  getting  away  from 
them.     [Laughter  and  applause.] 

"If  this  thing  keeps  up  we'll  have  to  start  a 


ROSCOE  BREAKS  HIS  PROMISE     211 

campaign'  to  swat  the  scout,  and  see  if  we  can't 
exterminate  them  in  that  way.  [Uproarious 
shouts  from  Pee-wee.] 

"But,  ladies  and  gentlemen  and  scouts — not 
that  scouts  aren't  gentlemen  [laughter] — I  don't 
think  soldiers  ought  to  be  expected  to  make 
speeches.  Actions  speak  louder  than  words,  as 
the  Kaiser  will  find  out [Pee-wee  was  re- 
strained with  difficulty.]  So  I'm  just  going  to  do 
something  instead  of  standing  here  talking.  Scout- 
master Ellsworth  said  for  me  to  put  plenty  of  pep 
into  my  little  performance.  And  I'm  going  to  put 
some  tabasco  sauce  in  it  [Pee-wee  again]  and  I 
hope  it  will  hold  him  for  a  while. 

"He  introduced  me  as  an  enlisted  soldier.  Two 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  fifty-seven  times  in 
the  last  two  days,  he's  called  me  that.  It's  a  base 
libel !    I  didn't  enlist;  I  was  drafted.    [Laughter.] 

"And  now  I'm  going  to  let  you  into  a  secret. 
Before  Registration  Day  I  felt  pretty  much  as  I 
felt  about  coming  here  to-night — I  had  cold  feet. 
I  have  only  the  one  thought  now,"  he  added, 
speaking  more  earnestly,  "and  that  is  to  get  over 
there  and  get  one  good  whack  at  that  crew  of 
bandits  and  murderers !     [Loud  cheering.] 

"But  before  Registration  Day  I  was  scared — 


212     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

just  plain  scared.  You  soon  get  rid  of  that  when 
you  get  into  the  uniform.  [Applause.]  Well, 
I'm  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  I  ran  away.  I  had  a 
crazy  notion  I  could  get  away  with  it.  I  went  up 
to  a  lonely  place  on  a  mountain  near  that  big  scout 
camp." 

You  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop  in  the  hall 
now. 

"And  one  of  these  fellows — these  scouts — sus- 
pected where  I  had  gone  and  came  up  there  after 
me  and  brought  me  to  my  senses."  Roscoe's  voice 
had  grown  gradually  lower,  and  he  spoke  hesitat- 
ingly now,  but  the  silence  was  so  intense  that  every 
word  was  audible.  "He  pawned  a  gold  medal  he 
had  to  pay  his  way  up  there  and  he  made  me  come 
back.  here.  He  missed  his  part  in  the  big  rally. 
He  couldn't  come  back  himself  because  he'd  hurt 
his  ankle. — He  made  me  come  back  here  where  I 
belonged — to  register! 

"And  then  when  he  found No,  wait  a 

minute,  I'll  read  you  the  letter!" 

He  was  in  a  fine  frenzy  of  enthusiasm  again 
now  that  he  had  finished  the  recital  of  his  own 
shameful  part  in  the  affair.  He  took  out  Tom's 
letter  and  read  it — read  every  word  of  it — and 


ROSCOE  BREAKS  HIS  PROMISE     213 

finished  it  with  his  cheeks  flushed  and  his  voice 
ringing: 

".  .  .  so  I'm  going  away  to  help  in  a  way 
I  can  do  without  breaking  my  word  to  any- 
body. The  thing  I  care  most  about  is  that 
you  got  registered.  And  next  to  that  I'm 
glad  because  I  like  you" — Roscoe  shook  his 
head  hastily  and  stopped  for  a  second  to  con- 
trol his  voice — "because  I  like  you  and  I  al- 
ways did — even  when  you  made  fun  of 
me " 

"What  he  liked  me  for,  I'm  hanged  if  /  know 
— but  that's  the   kind   of  a   fellow  Tom   Slade 


is- 


" Whatever  became  of  him?"  some  one  on  the 
platform  whispered  to  some  one  else. 

There  was  a  slight  sound  back  in  the  lobby  of 
the  hall. 

"Somebody  down  there  head  him  off;  don't  let 
him  get  away!"  called  Roscoe,  stepping  right  to 
the  front  of  the  platform.  "Start  him  down  here! 
He  didn't  get  away,  did  he?" 

Roy  Blakeley,  vaulting  over  two  rows  of  chairs, 
was  in  the  aisle  in  three  seconds.  Everybody 
turned  and  looked  toward  the  back  of  the  hall. 


2i4    TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

Some  stood,  peering  cautiously  into  the  dim  lobby, 
where  a  little  scuffle  seemed  to  be  going  on.  Then 
Roscoe  himself  leaped  straight  over  the  orches- 
tra's space  and  started  up  the  aisle. 

But  he  was  not  needed.  For  Mr.  Ellsworth 
himself  had  caught  Tom  by  the  collar,  thrusting 
him  out  into  the  aisle,  where  Roy  clutched  him  by 
the  arm. 

And  then  the  crowd  saw  him;  saw  him  standing 
shamefacedly  there  as  if  still  inclined  to  break 
away  and  run  for  it;  his  head  hanging  down,  his 
big  hand  moving  nervously  on  the  old  book-strap 
which  he  wore  for  a  belt.  The  necktie,  which 
presumably  Mrs.  O'Connor  had  furnished  him, 
was  all  awry,  and  in  the  half  light  they  could  see, 
too,  that  his  old  clothes  were  faded  and  torn.  He 
seemed  quite  indifferent  to  everybody  and  every- 
thing— even  to  Mr.  Ellsworth — though  he  smiled 
nervously  at  Roscoe. 

But  Roy  Blakeley,  clinging  to  his  arm,  could 
feel  what  no  one  else  could  feel  or  see — Tom's 
hand  pressing  his  wrist  like  a  wireless  signal,  and 
Roy,  like  the  bully  scout  he  was,  understood  the 
code,  took  the  message,  and  was  silent. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

THE    END    OF   THE    TRAIL 

Yes,  that  was  a  great  meeting — it  was  a  peach 
of  a  meeting! 

"You  broke  your  word,"  accused  Tom,  as  Ros- 
coe  elbowed  his  way  in. 

"I  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  asked  you  to  trust 
a  soldier's  honor.  You  know  more  about  a  sol- 
dier's honor  now  than  you  did  before,  don't  you?" 

"Good-night!"  laughed  Roy.  "No  more  sol- 
dier's honor  for  you!  Hey,  Tomasso?  You've 
had  enough  of  it." 

Indeed  he  had  had  altogether  too  much  of  it. 
But  his  embarrassment  passed  as  the  bulk  of  the 
crowd,  not  involved  in  this  surprising  turn  of  af- 
fairs, took  its  way  homeward,  leaving  the  scouts 
and  a  few  others  in  the  hall.  And  soon  things 
worked  around  so  that  Roscoe  saw  Tom  alone. 
Not  altogether  alone,  either,  for  Margaret 
Ellison  was  with  him.  How  Roy  and  Pee-wee 
chanced  to  miss  this  I  do  not  know. 

215 


2i 6     TOxM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

The  girl  said  very  little,  but  stared  at  him  until 
at  last  he  said,  "Are  you  looking  at  that  scar? 
It  don't  look  good,  but  it'll  go  away,  I  guess." 

"How  did  you  get  it?"  she  asked. 

"He  gave  his  place  to  another  man,"  said  Ros- 
coe,  "and  was  dumped  into  the  ocean  alone." 

"A  chunk  of  wood  banged  me  in  the  forehead," 
said  Tom  simply. 

"Tom,  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor,"  said  Ros- 
coe,  while  Margaret  continued  to  gaze  at  him. 
"It's  a  terribly  impolite  thing  to  suggest,  but  if 
you'd  be  willing  to  walk  over  to  East  Bridgeboro 
with  Margaret,  I  could  go  home  and  get  my 
things  together.  I'm  afraid  I'll  miss  the  only 
train.  You  come  to  my  house  afterward  and  go 
to  the  train  with  me.  You  don't  mind,  do  you, 
Marge?  He'll  protect  you  from  the  lions  and 
tigers." 

If  she  minded  she  didn't  show  it. 

"I — ain't  dressed  up,"  said  Tom  awkwardly. 

"I'm  so  glad  of  that!"  she  said. 

Never  in  his  life  had  he  walked  with  a  girl 
anywhere  near  his  own  age,  and  he  felt  just  as  he 
had  felt  that  gala  day  when  he  had  chatted  with 
her  in  Temple  Camp  office.    And  because  he  was 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL        217 

flustered  and  knew  of  nothing  in  particular  to  say, 
he  repeated  just  what  he  had  said  then — that  he 
could  see  she  liked  Roscoe,  and  he  added  that 
he  didn't  blame  her,  for  Roscoe  was  "so  good- 
looking  in  his  uniform — kind  of." 

To  this  she  made  no  answer;  but  after  a  few 
minutes  she  said,  "Will  you  take  me  through 
Barrel  Alley  where  you  used  to  live?" 

So  Tom  took  her  through  Barrel  Alley,  an- 
swering her  questions  about  his  experiences  and 
telling  of  spies  and  torpedoings  and  his  rescue  and 
cruise  to  South  America  simply,  almost  dully,  as 
if  they  were  things. which  were  not  worth  talking 
about. 

When  they  came  behind  John  Temple's  big 
bank  building,  they  stood  on  the  barrel  staves 
whence  the  alley  derived  its  name  and  counted  the 
floors  and  picked  out  the  windows  of  Temple 
Camp  office. 

"You'll  come  in  and  see  Mr.  Burton  in  the 
morning,  won't  you?"  she  said. 

"Maybe,"  said  Tom. 

The  good  scout  trail,  which  had  wound  over 
half  the  earth,  took  them  on  down  that  poor, 
sordid  alley,  and  he  showed  her  the  tenement 
where  he  had  once  lived. 


2i 8     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

"The  day  we  got  put  out,"  he  said  simply,  "the 
sheriff  stood  a  beer  can  on  my  mother's  picture." 

"Oh!"  she  said;  "and  then?" 

"Nothing  then,"  said  Tom,  "only  I  knocked 
him  into  the  gutter.     I  got  arrested." 

They  came  out  into  the  brighter  light  and 
clearer  air  of  Main  Street,  and  now  the  good 
scout  trail,  which  indeed  had  not  disappointed 
him,  led  them  toward  the  quiet  river  and  the  wil- 
lows and  the  hilly  banks  and  across  the  bridge, 
from  which  he  showed  her  the  troop's  cabin  boat 
(soon  to  be  plastered  with  Liberty  Loan  posters) , 
and  into  the  rural  quiet  of  East  Bridgeboro. 

"I  said  it  was  a  trail,"  said  Tom. 

"Yes?" 

"I  mean  everything  you  do — kind  of.  It's  just 
a  trail.    You  don't  know  where  it'll  take  you." 

"It's  just  brought  you  back  to  the  same  place, 
hasn't  it?"  she  said. 

"But  it  won't  stop,"  said  Tom.  "It  don't  make 
any  difference,  anyway,  as  long  as  you  hit  the  right 
one.  Once  I  thought  it  was  kind  of  a  crazy  notion 
about  everything  you  do  being  a  trail.  But  now  I 
know  different.  And  if  you  do  the  wrong  thing, 
you  get  on  the  wrong  trail,  that's  all.  Maybe  you 
don't  understand  exactly  what  I  mean." 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL        219 

"I  do  understand." 

"It's  brought  me  right  back  to  where  I'm  talk- 
ing to  you  again  the  same  as  on  Registration  Day. 
So  you  see  it's  a  good  trail.  I  got  a  kind  of  an 
idea  that  there  can  be  a  trail  in  your  brain — like. 
— Often  I  think  of  things  like  that  that  I  can't 
make  other  people  understand — not  even  Roy 
sometimes. — I  guess  maybe  girls  understand 
better." 

"Maybe,"  she  said.  "Do  you  see  I'm  wearing 
the  little  badge  you  gave  me  yet?" 

They  strolled  on,  following  the  trail,  and 
neither  spoke  for  a  few  minutes. 

"In  the  end  you  don't  get  misjudged,"  said 
Tom  simply,  "because  if  you  get  on  the  right  trail 
it'll  bring  you  to  the  right  place.  If  you've  got 
the  right  on  your  side,  you  got  to  win." 

"And  that's  why  we'll  win  the  war,"  she  said. 

"A  feller  that  maybe  got  drowned  told  me 
about  a  little  girl  in  London  that  got  blown  up 
while  she  was  studying  her  lessons.  And  when  I 
heard  that  I  knew  we'd  win." 

"Uncle  Sam's  like  you,  Tom,"  she  laughed. 
"When  he  makes  up  his  mind  to  do  a  thing  .  .  . 
Do  you  remember  how  you  told  me  you  had  a 


220     TOM  SLADE  WITH  THE  COLORS 

good  muscle?  Uncle  Sam's  got  a  good  muscle, 
don't  you  think?" 

"I  was  thinking  something  like  that  when  I 
looked  at  Roscoe  to-night,"  he  said.  "We  got  to 
trust  to  Uncle  Sam." 

"The  whole  world  is  trusting  to  Uncle  Sam 
now." 

"He's  got  the  muscle,"  said  Tom. 

"Yes." 

The  trail  led  through  a  fragrant  avenue  of 
evergreens  now,  through  a  solitude  where  Tom 
had  often  hiked,  and  presently  they  turned  into 
the  path  which  formed  the  short  cut  to  the  girl's 
home.  Across  the  river,  on  the  top  of  the  bank 
building,  they  could  see  the  Stars  and  Stripes  wav- 
ing in  the  small  field  of  brightness  thrown  by  the 
searchlight.     And  all  else  was  darkness. 

So,  chatting  idly,  but  all  the  while  coming  to 
know  each  other  better,  they  passed  the  log  on 
which  Tom  and  Roscoe  had  sat  and  talked,  and 
strolled  on  through  the  dark,  silent  grove,  where 
the  lions  and  tigers  were,  and  where  the  lonely 
screech-owl  still  hooted  his  dismal  song. 

THE    END 


ft  a 


